


Walking on Moonbeams

by casuallyhl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 2000s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Kid Fic, Kissing, M/M, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19331056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhl/pseuds/casuallyhl
Summary: “I see you here every day, and I never hear you play a song of your own. It’s good; why don’t you play it in the daytime?”Louis looks back at him and quirks an eyebrow. “People want to hear songs they know, songs they can dance to,” he explains, slightly annoyed. “They don’t want to hear stuff like that. I wouldn’t make any money if I played my own songs. They wouldn’t listen.”The man looks pointedly at Louis. “I listened.”Or, aOnceAU where Louis is a brokenhearted street musician and Harry is a feisty yet captivating pianist who shows him that it’s never too late for a second chance.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I first saw Once in 2014 at the Phoenix Theatre in London. Arthur Darvill starred as Guy, and it was such a thrilling theatre experience for me. The music and the story have remained with me all these years, so writing Harry and Louis into the story was an absolute joy.
> 
> This fic is a combination of the musical and the movie and my own ending, because I don’t know how to write anything other than a happy ending. 
> 
> First of all, I would like to thank [Rachel](http://scholasticdreamer.tumblr.com/). She retired as my beta earlier this year, and I want to thank her so much for creating seventeen amazing fics with me. I wouldn’t have been able to do any of it without you, and I thank you so much for your constant support. 
> 
> I would also like to thank Sophie for stepping up and betaing my fic for me. I really appreciate the time and effort you put into this. I know it was difficult coming in at the eleventh hour to work on this fic, and I appreciate your dedication in helping me. 
> 
> Thank you to [Emma](https://herefortommo.tumblr.com/) for checking my Czech (ha pun). You were very kind to help a monolingual American navigate a language in which I am clueless. Thank you to my friends who supported me in the writing process. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_London, England. October 2006._

_Friday._

Music runs through London like the constant and rhythmic flow of the Thames. It is a pulse beating throughout the city, alive and all-encompassing. It is always there; it stretches from one end of the city to the other. Just as London cannot exist without its river, neither can it exist without its music.

In Westminster, music is the sound of Big Ben tolling the hour as double decker buses cross the bridge and as tourists snap photos of the iconic landmarks surrounding them. In the City, music is high heels clicking on the pavement and grey suits talking on their mobiles, always in a rush, always off to some important meeting or another.

In the Royal Albert Hall, music is the symphony playing beautiful concertos written hundreds of years ago. Outside the hall, music is the sound of spare change being dropped into the cup of a desolate soul whose belongings are nothing more than the clothes on their back and the cup in their hands.

In the West End, music is the overture before a great show – the lights buzzing brightly on the stage, the audience as they applaud and cry for an encore. In Greenwich, music is the sound of thousands of people screaming as guitars and drums blare through large speakers.

In St. Paul’s, music is a choir in harmony, singing praises to a god for their mercy and kindness. In St. Thomas’s, music is a mother’s prayer to that same god as she holds her child close after a successful operation.

On the Southbank, music is a man. A busker with his guitar. Singing songs that everyone knows as a way to entertain them as they marvel at the magnificent skyline or wait for their turn on the London Eye.

On the Southbank, music is Louis Tomlinson and his guitar, trying to make a living doing what he loves and never quite succeeding.

Louis sees the way tourists’ eyes light up when they hear a song they know and love. That is when they stop to watch, sometimes pulling out their cameras to film him – a grainy video they will show their friends and family when they return home. Sometimes they’ll start dancing, too infected by the music and the excitement of being in a big city to keep from cutting loose. Kids toddling on chubby legs or an elderly couple waltzing to an old favorite. It always makes Louis smile, knowing he is bringing a moment of joy to the people around him.

The generous souls will throw a couple pence into his guitar case; the saintly ones will throw a pound or two. Louis always makes sure to smile at them, nod his thanks. He’ll ask them if there’s a song they want to hear; he knows them all.

He plays popular songs – current hits from the radio or classics that everyone wants to stop and dance along to. ABBA. Green Day. Whitney Houston. Take That. But never one of his own, never a Louis Tomlinson original.

No one would stop for a Louis Tomlinson original. No one’s eyes would light up; no one would start to dance. They only want to hear the songs they know, and no one knows Louis’ songs.

Only once does Louis play one of his original songs – as the sun is setting and people are scurrying home, not lingering to listen to the music or take in the atmosphere. Only once does Louis play one of his songs, and only once does someone stop to listen.

But once is all it takes.

 

Louis has been thinking about him again. Louis promised himself he wouldn’t, but he can’t help it.

He loved nights like this. A chilly autumn twilight, the sun falling behind Big Ben, illuminating the river in a brilliant golden light. Sometimes he would come when Louis was finished playing and they would walk back to their flat together. He would carry Louis’ guitar case, and they would talk about their days.

That was over a year ago, and Louis still feels as if he is going to stop by here at any moment. He would be bundled in a scarf and jacket, but still willing to brave the cold air so he can hold Louis’ hand on the walk home.

The memories make Louis’ stomach churn unpleasantly, make his throat feel thick. He can blame any wetness in his eyes on the bite of the wind, relentlessly blowing off the river.

Louis is playing the chords before he even realizes what he’s doing. His fingers automatically fall on the frets, pressing the familiar strings down. There is no one around – everyone is rushing home, the Southbank relatively quiet. No one that lingers is paying him any mind anyways.

Louis lets go. His eyes slip shut as the heartbreak and the anger and the hurt take over. His right hand is rough on the strings, his voice rasping with emotion as he sings, begging his lover to leave. To let him be free and just leave him. His voice becomes louder, his pick landing forcefully on the strings, and Louis feels as if he is completely alone. As if no one can see or hear him, and he can just be free. Words suddenly become too much, and he begins to vocalize, releasing his emotions like a bomb exploding, mushrooming, and expanding. The song turns into vocalized runs, Louis singing ohs and ahs as his heart needs.

The song draws to a close. Louis’ wrist is limp against the strings.

His eyes blink open hazily, and there is a man standing in front of him.

The man’s bright green eyes meet Louis’, and immediately he bursts into applause. The sound is muffled since he’s wearing gloves, but Louis can see a dimple carved deep into the man’s cheek as he smiles brightly. He throws a coin into Louis’ guitar case, and it makes a dull thud against the material.

Louis offers a weak smile in return, feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment that someone witnessed such a vulnerable outpouring.

“Thank you,” Louis says, his voice slightly hoarse from the singing. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“I like that song,” the man says with a slight accent. It sounds Eastern European, but Louis also hears a hint of something else. Almost Northern, as if the two accents are dueling against one another on his tongue.

“Cheers,” Louis replies, offering the man a smile.

“You write that song?” the man asks .

“Yeah, I did,” Louis admits, rubbing the back of his neck. The man’s stare cuts straight through Louis. Maybe it is just because Louis played such a vulnerable song when he thought no one was paying attention, but it feels as if the man is peering right into him. As if he can see every one of Louis’ thoughts and secrets. Louis looks away, disconcerted.

“I see you here every day, and I never hear you play a song of your own. It’s good; why don’t you play it in the daytime?”

Louis looks back at him and quirks an eyebrow. “People want to hear songs they know, songs they can dance to,” he explains, slightly annoyed. “They don’t want to hear stuff like that. I wouldn’t make any money if I played my own songs. They wouldn’t listen.”

The man looks pointedly at Louis. “I listened.”

Louis shrugs.

The man’s smile is still wide on his face. He’s wearing a heavy pink coat that looks a little worse for wear, a beige scarf wrapped tight around his neck. Louis can see a couple holes in the gloves he is wearing. He looks a couple years younger than Louis, maybe in his early or mid twenties. He clutches several copies of _The Big Issue_ to his chest, as if using them to block out the wind. The wind ruffles the man’s curly brown hair, and Louis watches as the strands lightly blow in the breeze, catching the light of one of the street lamps.

“Who is she?”

Louis’ grip tightens on the guitar, and he takes a defensive step back.

“Not she.”

The man nods in understanding, only kindness in his expression. “Who is he? Where is he?”

“Jesus, mate.” Louis scoffs, wondering if it would be rude to just walk away. But then the man’s line of questioning is fairly rude and invasive, so Louis figures the man must not be too concerned with social etiquette either.

The question in the man’s eyes does not relent, so Louis looks away. “He left.”

It’s such a simple truth, but it still feels like a fresh wound every time Louis has to say it. Two simple words, but those two words cut Louis open and left him heartbroken and alone. Louis’ song may have been about begging his lover to leave, but in reality, his lover did so without Louis ever wanting him to.

“You still love him?”

“Jesus,” Louis swears again, making a face at the man, hoping he’ll relent. Louis shakes his head, but it’s not an answer.

“I think you still love him,” the man declares boldly, smiling as if he is bloody Cupid about to shoot Louis with his arrow. “You couldn’t write that song and not still love him. I bet he still loves you, too. You play this song for him, and you get him back.”

“I don’t want him back,” Louis answers immediately, like a frightened animal lashing out in defense. He never should have played the song. He should have just played Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 or something like that and called it a day.

“Look, I really should be going –” Louis says, hoping the man will take the hint, but he cuts him off.

“Why don’t you have a job in a shop?”

“I have a job in a shop.”

“What kind of shop?”

“A hoover repair shop.”

Suddenly, the man’s smiles with full force. “You fix vacuum cleaners?”

“I do, yeah.”

“I have a broken vacuum cleaner!” the man exclaims, as if he suddenly realized that Louis is his long lost brother. “Would you fix it for me?”

“Um, yeah,” Louis agrees uncertainly.

“This is great!” The man looks like an overexcited Disney character with his wide smile and sparkling eyes. Louis fights the tiny smile that threatens to upturn his lips. “I’ll bring it tomorrow?”

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine.”

The man steps away, as if he is finally leaving, but he stops, turning back to Louis. “Tomorrow?” he asks, as if holding Louis to this very important commitment.

“Tomorrow,” Louis echoes, nodding at him.

“Great. Good night.”

“Good night,” Louis says.

Once again, the man walks away, but he turns around again when he is barely taken three steps.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Louis hesitates. This man saw Louis’ most vulnerable side tonight – a side Louis only shows when he is singing his own songs. This man has asked one invasive and personal question after another, but somehow, giving him his name feels like the most private of all.

“Louis.”

The man smiles. “I’m Harry.”

 

Louis’ feet dangle off the edge of the bed, his back against the wall. His guitar rests in his lap as he lazily strums chords. A black notebook that cost 50p lays open next to him, turned to a half finished song.

He strums quietly, not wishing to disturb his stepdad who’s asleep down the hall. Exhaustion also tugs at Louis’ limbs, but his mind feels wide awake, inspiration surging through his veins like a shot of caffeine.

The inspiration came out of the blue, lyrics suddenly whirring through his head as he washed up after dinner. He had retreated to his room after a hasty good night to his stepdad, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Louis’ pencil scratches against the paper, his hand moving quickly and smudging the barely legible words.

His mind turns to Harry, as it has multiple times since their strange encounter earlier that evening. He’s never quite had an exchange like that with a complete stranger before. Louis has had people walking by who express their enjoyment of his musical ability. Even though it’s always about songs that aren’t his, they’ll tell him how much they like his voice or how talented he is on guitar. Louis always appreciates the praise; it makes him feel like it’s not just in his head that he has talent.

But the way Harry looked at him with such intensity in his eyes, it was not as if Harry had just enjoyed Louis’ music. It was as if Harry had understood, and that possibly, it had also affected him.

In the moment, the intense understanding in Harry’s eyes had unsettled Louis. As if he had been turned inside and out for this stranger to see and judge. But instead of judging him, Harry had sought to learn more and showed Louis a type of acceptance that he had never before experienced.

But now, several hours later, Harry’s intense understanding and acceptance had lit a fire within Louis to just keep writing. To write and sing and play until he creates something that someone could understand and relate to as completely as Harry had. To create something that would give him that same level of acceptance that he felt with Harry.

Even though he had wished Harry would go away when they were talking, Louis finds himself wondering if Harry will come back tomorrow. Louis hopes he will. He wants to play more of his songs for Harry and hear what he thinks.

Louis also wouldn’t mind seeing Harry again just to see him. Harry was handsome, Louis can admit. Even with his doe-like eyes and ridiculous smile, those big eyes had been an electric, enchanting green, and that smile was framed by full, pink lips.

Louis’ stomach squeezes at the thought, but he quickly writes it off as not having eaten enough at dinner.

Harry’s accent had been undoubtedly charming, and Louis wants to find out where it’s from. He wants to hear it again. Louis thinks about how Harry’s hair had blown in the wind. His loose chocolate curls had looked so soft, almost as if they were begging for Louis to reach out and still them, tuck them behind his ear. It has been so long since Louis has run his fingers through someone’s hair, massaged their scalp with his blunt fingernails, and felt them turn to putty in his arms. Louis would like to feel that again.

He would like to see Harry again.

As Louis plays, his words are a prayer into the night that Harry will keep his word and that Louis will see him again tomorrow.

 

_Saturday._

Saturdays are always busy on the Southbank. Not only is it packed with the usual tourists, but locals are also out, enjoying the weekend and taking advantage of the unseasonably warm autumn weather. Louis has had almost a constant audience since he began playing that morning, and his guitar case is happily weighed down with coins and even a couple of bank notes.

Louis has just finished an acoustic version of ABBA’s Dancing Queen – to the delight of everyone around him – when he sees Harry, his head bobbing at the back of the crowd.

A flash of warmth surges through Louis, as if a sunbeam has come from the sky and landed straight in his chest. He smiles and announces to his audience that he is taking a short break.

As the crowd disperses, Harry walks forward – dragging his hoover behind him.

“Hello,” Harry greets, smiling at Louis.

“Hey,” Louis smiles back. He glances down at the hoover in confusion, but Harry seems to pay that no mind.

“You have a crowd today,” Harry observes.

Louis shrugs. “Well, everyone loves ABBA.”

Harry makes an unconvinced noise, as if the crowds didn’t just stop for ABBA. “I brought my hoover.” He holds the hoover by the hose, almost as if it is a lead and the hoover behind him is a dog that is reluctant to go on a walk. Harry looks at Louis expectantly, as if he thinks Louis is equipped to do a full inspection of his broken hoover in the middle of the Southbank.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Harry tugs on the hose, and it rolls noisily to his side. “It is fucked,” he replies, but he phrases it like a question. “It won’t suck up the dirt.”

Louis nods, leaning down to his guitar case. He picks up the coins and notes, slipping them into a side pocket before placing his guitar in the case. “Look, I don’t have any of my tools or anything to fix it with. They’re all back at the shop. Could you come back tomorrow? I could fix it then.” Louis feels foolish – in the midst of his hopefulness to see Harry again, he forgot that he actually promised he’d fix his hoover.

Harry’s brow wrinkles, his bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly. “But I brought it today.”

“But I don’t have any of my tools, you see. I’m on my break; I can look at it, but I can’t fix it today.”

Harry seems unsatisfied with this answer but remains undeterred. “I’ll come with you,” Harry decides. “We can get lunch and then go back to your shop.”

“Um.”

“I’ll come with you,” Harry’s tone is determined, brokering no argument.

Louis glances around, uncertain. The Southbank looks like Oxford Street at Christmas – so crammed full of people it seems impossible to move. It would be foolish for him to leave his post and go back to the shop to fix this one hoover. Not when he could probably make as much money from playing his guitar and doing what he actually loves.

But the way Harry’s eyes burn with determination, the resolved set of his jaw, Louis knows he doesn’t have a choice. He picks up his guitar case and slings it over his shoulder.

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes.

The firm set of Harry’s jaw dissolves into a smile. “Thank you.”

Harry and Louis start walking, the hoover dragging behind them. A couple tourists have to dodge out of the way to avoid the unpredictable path of the hoover, and Louis can’t help but chuckle. Harry seems oblivious to the muttered swearing behind him.

“You hungry?” Louis asks.

“Always hungry,” Harry replies.

They settle in at a café by Hungerford Bridge sitting by the large windows so that they can watch people passing by. Louis can hear the faint rumble of the trains from Charing Cross Station passing overhead as he sips his tea. The hoover rests at Harry’s feet, the hose lying in a jumbled pile on top of it.

“So you know a bit about music, then?” Louis asks as Harry swallows a spoonful of soup. Louis can see the steam rising off the hot soup, perfect on a chilly day like today. Louis’ turkey club sandwich lies half eaten on his plate. He prefers instead to cradle his hot cup of tea in his cold hands.

Harry nods. “My mother played violin in the orchestra back home in Prague. I grew up going to the rehearsals, listening to her play. My sister and I – we attended all her concerts.” A fond, wistful smile crosses Harry’s face, and Louis smiles at Harry’s nostalgic tone. “I’d sit backstage and my sister would read or do homework, but I always watched. Always pretended I was on stage with them, playing Dvorak or Tchaikovsky. My favorite game to play as a kid was called Orchestra – I would be the conductor and the concertmaster and any other instrument I decided.”

Harry laughs quietly, and Louis joins him. Even though he has barely known Harry for twenty-four hours, he can easily imagine a younger version of him playing an imaginary violin or trumpet or clarinet, while simultaneously conducting himself with a serious expression on his face and a poofy head of curls.

“That sounds lovely. Do you play violin, then?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “I play piano. My mother taught me. I was going to study piano at university, but,” Harry shrugs, “it didn’t work out.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise in curiosity, but something about Harry’s tone keeps him from inquiring further. Instead, Louis asks, “Do you still play?”

“Sometimes. I don’t have a piano. It’s too expensive to buy one here in London. There’s a music shop nearby my flat, and the owner is very nice and lets me play there when it’s not too busy.”

Louis nods. “That is really nice. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I didn’t have my guitar. Even as beat up as it is, if I couldn’t play it every day, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Harry smiles in understanding, taking another sip of his soup. “Usually the owner has to make me leave. I always stay until closing when I can.”

Louis huffs a laugh, easily able to imagine himself doing the same if he didn’t have a guitar of his own.

“How did you start playing?” Harry asks. “Does anyone in your family play?”

Louis shakes his head. “My mum sang in the church choir growing up, but she never learned how to play an instrument. When I came along, she thought it was important I learn how to play something. I chose guitar. I started playing when I was about seven years old. Really young, but I just loved it.”

Harry smiles. “When did you start writing your own songs?”

Louis chuckles. “When I was probably about ten or eleven. And of course they were all rubbish. Songs about love and heartbreak, as if I had any understanding of that.” Harry laughs along with him, and they share a smile. “It wasn’t until I was about sixteen that I wrote the first song that was decent enough to keep on.”

“What was it called?” Harry asks, amusement in his eyes.

Louis snorts. “Forget. It was about a boy in my class who I had a crush on, and then I found out he was straight. The whole song was about how I wanted to forget him, but I just couldn’t.” Louis smiles nostalgically. “I think the only good thing to come from having a crush on that boy was that song. It made me realize that I actually could write something good.”

“Everything happens for a reason,” Harry says cheekily. “Someday when you are rich and famous, you will have him to thank.”

Louis laughs, thinking that he would thank a hundred people before he would thank his secondary school crush. “Can you imagine? I don’t even know what happened to him. He could be on the moon for all I know. But I guess I’ll owe it all to him if I ever make it big.”

“Don’t let him find out though,” Harry says reasonably. “Otherwise he may want a cut of the royalties.”

“Wouldn’t that be horrible? I have one half-decent song about him and suddenly every man I’ve ever known will be claiming it’s about them.”

Harry shrugs. “I wouldn’t be able to blame them. If a beautiful love song was written about me by someone like you, I would make sure everyone knew it.”

Louis’ cheeks flush, as if the porcelain of his hot cup of tea was pressed directly against his skin. Harry’s gaze is fastened on him – that same fixed, disconcerting staring that had unsettled Louis so much the night before.

“Well,” Louis clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on you, then. Make sure you aren’t just trying to ride on my coattails to fame and fortune.” The joke lands flat though, his timing off. He looks away from Harry’s insistent gaze.

“So, you said you’re from Prague, then?” Louis asks in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

Mercifully, Harry relents, looking away from Louis and taking another sip of his soup. “Yes and no. I actually lived in Cheshire for the first ten years of my life, but when Mum was offered a position with the Prague Symphony Orchestra, she accepted and moved us there. It was right after she divorced my dad, so it made sense to have a fresh start.” Harry shrugs. “It was a lot of changes all at once for me, but I can see why she did it.”

Louis nods. “That explains the accent, then,” he says with a quirk of his lips.

“My accent?” Harry asks, brow crinkling in confusion.

Louis can’t help but giggle at Harry’s expression. “Yeah. It’s like a mishmash of Eastern European and Northern. I like it though,” Louis admits in a rush. “It’s charming.”

Harry huffs a laugh, the wrinkles in his forehead smoothing over. “I had a thick Northern accent growing up, but when we moved to Prague, the other kids made fun of me. I lost my accent for a while, and it became more Czech. But since being back in England, and hearing other Northern accents, mine has been coming out more and more.” Harry’s lips quirk. “Like with you. I can hear your Northern accent, and it makes mine want to come out. Where in the North are you from?”

“Doncaster,” Louis replies. “I’ve been down in London for about five years now, but I still sound just as Yorkshire as I did when I lived there.”

“That’s good. I wish I hadn’t lost my accent, but I guess now I have this hodgepodge of an accent. And at least you find it charming.”

Louis laughs to avoid replying, drinking his tea. “What brought you back to England?”

Harry shrugs. “Lots of reasons. My mum retired from the orchestra and wanted to move back. I didn’t really have any commitments in Prague, so I decided to come with her. She needs someone to look after her, and I like London, so here we are.”

Louis wants to press, feeling as if there is more to the story, but decides against it. He picks up his turkey club, taking a bite out of it. Harry’s spoon scrapes the bottom of the soup bowl.

“The music store you play at – is it far from here?”

Harry sets down his soup bowl, his eyebrows raising. “No. It’s near Waterloo. You want to hear me play?”

Louis shrugs. “Yeah, I’d like that. We can go to the hoover shop after.”

Harry grins. “I’d like that, too.”

They finish off the last remains of their food and take final sips of their water before leaving the café. Harry’s hoover remains faithfully behind them, clattering against the pavement as Harry drags it by the hose.

The music shop is in a skinny brownstone building, tucked under the train tracks. As Harry and Louis walk into the shop, Louis can hear the trains pulling into the station, the steady chug-chug of their wheels on the rails. It works like a metronome, filling the small shop with a continuous, constant beat.

“Hello,” Harry greets the man at the counter. The man looks up from his newspaper and smiles politely at Harry. He makes no comment about the hoover that Harry is dragging behind him, and Louis wonders if these kinds of eccentricities are common for Harry. “This is the man I was telling you about,” Harry says to Louis, before speaking to the man. “Is it alright if I play?”

He nods, flipping a page in his newspaper. “Just not the Yamaha. It’s sold.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees easily. “Thank you.”

Harry leads Louis to the back part of the shop. The walls are filled with mint condition guitars, looking as fresh and new as plucked flowers. Louis’ jaw drags along the floor like Harry’s hoover as he stares at them. The guitar on his back suddenly feels heavy, like a jealous lover aware that his attention is drawn elsewhere.

The pianos are in the back of the shop. Harry stops at the periphery, looking at all of them with a smile on his face. He looks like a father with his children, beaming at them each as if they are his own. “Which one should I play today?” he asks Louis.

Harry wonders around the different pianos, his fingers touching them lightly. Louis watches silently, not wishing to disturb him.

Finally Harry decides on a dark brown Steinway baby grand piano. He sits down comfortably on the bench, letting his fingers run over the keys for a moment as if he is saying hello. Louis walks up to Harry’s side as Harry begins to play.

The song is slow and beautiful, but Louis can hear a deep melancholy in the chords. He thinks back to the song he played last night, the song that Harry had heard. Louis’ song had been about heartbreak and the anger that comes with it. The song Harry plays also holds that same element of heartbreak, but instead of anger, it holds sadness. As if while Louis handled his heartbreak with screaming and frustration, Harry handled his by mourning.

Louis watches as Harry’s hands dance gently across the keys, seeming to just barely touch them. The keys turn to putty under Harry’s touch, molding easily to his will. A couple of rings on his fingers catch the light as he plays. His hands are graceful across the keys, and Louis finds himself unable to look away. The tragically beautiful melody and the elegance with which Harry’s hands move transfix Louis and root him to the spot.

The song draws to a close, and Harry’s hands fall away.

“That was beautiful,” Louis says breathlessly. “Did you write that?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “Mendelssohn did.”

“Oh.”

“Will you play me another one of your songs?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head immediately, feeling bashful. “No,” he quickly dismisses.

“Please?” Harry says, his eyes wide and pleading.

“No, not here.” Louis doesn’t know why he feels reluctant to play in this small, empty shop, when he sings around masses of people on the Southbank every day. Maybe it’s just because Harry is here, and Louis feels shy playing his music around him after last night. After Harry listened to one of Louis’ own songs and enjoyed it.

“It’s okay,” Harry pushes. He glances over his shoulder at the owner who isn’t paying any attention to them. “He doesn’t mind. Please?”

Without his permission, Louis’ hand starts rummaging through his guitar case, pulling out his black notebook full of his songs. “Okay, only if you’re sure you want to.”

“I’m sure,” Harry says confidently, clearly pleased with himself.

Louis flips through the notebook to find a song to play. As soon as the book falls open to one particular song, he knows that this is the perfect one for them. He bends back the notebook’s spine so that it will stay open and places it on the piano. Louis grabs a chair from a nearby piano and sits down. He gets his guitar out and places it in his lap while Harry studies the music.

“It’s in C,” Louis says dumbly.

“I can _see_ that,” Harry says with ridiculous emphasis to make a bad pun.

Louis chuckles nervously, his stomach feeling tight with knots. It feels like his first performance – the first time he was brave enough to play in front of his family. Even though it had just been his parents and siblings, singing in front of them songs that he had written was a kind of immobilizing fear that Louis had never experienced before. That fear has diminished over years of playing, but he nevertheless always feels apprehensive whenever he plays for someone new, for someone he wants to impress. With Harry, that apprehensiveness is full blown stage fright. He desperately wants Harry to not only enjoy the song, but to connect to it as deeply as he did last night. His hand tremors ever so slightly as he places it on the neck of the guitar.

“So it goes like this,” Louis says, the guitar in his lap grounding him. He plays the opening chords, singing along. Harry watches his hands on the guitar strings, and Harry’s own hands slowly begin to copy his on the piano. The piano and guitar blend together, and Louis smiles. “Yeah, just like that. Then there’s another part that goes like this.” Louis plays the bridge, singing the notes of the melody. Harry watches his hands, but then glances up at the sheet music to follow along. Louis looks up at the music too and continues to sing.

“And here’s the chorus,” Louis says, but by now, Harry has gotten it. He plays along confidently, his fingers sure against the keys.

“Yeah that’s pretty much it,” Louis says as they finish the chorus. “Should we give it a try?”

Harry nods, his intense focus settling around him as he studies the music.

Louis swallows roughly. “Okay. Two, three, four.”

The opening notes are soft but yet they seem to fill the whole of the shop. But at the same time, the shop seems to fall away, and as he plays, Louis feels alone with Harry. Harry joins in on piano, and the two instruments become one voice, singing together in perfect harmony.

Louis opens his mouth and sings.

“I don’t know you, but I want you all the more for that.”

The words are sung softly, as if they are a private confession spoken between lovers.

“Words fall through me and always fool me and I can’t react.”

Harry joins in on the second line, his voice also shy at first, but harmonizing gorgeously with Louis. Louis’ heart jumps to his throat at the sound of Harry’s voice. Deep like his speaking voice with a hint of his accent, but so pleasing to listen to. A voice that belongs in all the concert halls in Britain, to be listened to and adored by thousands of people. And here he is, in a small music shop, singing one of Louis’ songs.

“And games that never amount to more than they’re meant will play themselves out,” Louis sings. He feels his confidence and his voice growing with each word. He starts losing himself in the music, his eyes falling shut as he sings the familiar song.

As they arrive at the chorus, it is like an explosion of harmony and emotion. Louis succumbs to the music, and he can feel Harry right at his side, also lost in the song’s growing power.

“Take this sinking boat and point it home. We’ve still got time. Raise your hopeful voice. You have a choice. You’ll make it now.

“Falling slowly, eyes that know me and I can’t go back. Moods that take me and erase me and I’m painted black.”

The song builds and builds, and Louis can hear poignant emotion in Harry’s voice as he sings. His fingers on the piano are surer, his voice stronger. The same feeling that Louis had when playing his song last night returns to him. The feeling of just letting go, of singing what is on his heart with complete and unashamed freedom. Now, he feels the same, but this time, he is not alone. He and Harry let go together; they sing with freedom together.

“You have suffered enough and warred with yourself. It’s time that you won. Take this sinking boat and point it home. We’ve still got time. Raise your hopeful voice. You have a choice. You’ll make it now.

“Falling slowly. Sing your melody. I’ll sing along.”

As they finish the last chorus, Louis vocalizes as he plays, his voice filled with emotion. Harry continues playing on the piano, and Louis can feel his eyes trained on him, watching for his cue.

Louis opens his eyes and is immediately met by Harry’s watchful gaze. Louis feels like a conductor, and Harry is his concertmaster waiting for the flick of his baton. He finishes his run, singing out in full force as if he was performing on a stage in front of thousands. Then Louis nods to Harry, and the song draws to a gentle close as they play the same chords the song opened with.

Louis’ chest heaves as if he has just run a marathon as the song fades out. Silence falls around them as the final chords disappear into the air. Harry seems as just as out of breath as Louis, but a big smile stretches across his face. Louis wonders if Harry feels the same as he does. If he has ever felt so connected to another person just through one song.

“Wow,” Louis says, unable to find any other words.

For the first time, Harry seems bashful, ducking his head to hide his smile. “Wow,” Harry agrees.

They sit in silence for a moment, but then the shop owner’s head pokes around the corner, a look of pleasant shock on his face.

“You kids are welcome to come here and play any time you like,” he exclaims. “So many people would want to hear you play, I’d have to start charging admission!”

 

Harry and Louis catch a bus outside of Waterloo Station that is headed towards Peckham where Louis’ stepdad’s shop is.

The bus is fairly empty, so Harry insists they sit on the upper level with all the enthusiasm of a determined child. They sit in the back row; the only other person on the bus is an older woman with a scarf tied around her head.

“Tell me about him,” Harry says.

“Who?” Louis asks, pulling his guitar out of his case to fix a broken string.

“The one you wrote the song for.”

“Oh.”

Even though he had written that song about his ex, Louis hadn’t been thinking about him while playing. His ex-boyfriend hadn’t crossed his mind as he had sat by Harry’s side, listening to his sweet, deep voice.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Harry presses.

Louis sighs. Talking about his breakup is something that he has determinedly avoided in the past year. His stepdad doesn’t really say much anyways, so it was easy to accomplish. Louis had opened up the only way he knew how – through music. He still doesn’t like to talk about it, but with his guitar in his hand, Louis thinks he can give Harry the answers he wants.

“Okay,” Louis says, strumming a chord. Harry smiles, a dimple appearing in his cheek at the promise of another song.

Not wanting to disappoint Harry, Louis strums a slow chord and begins to sing. "A few years ago, I fell in love with an Irish man. He took my heart.” Louis pauses, Harry looking at him expectantly. “But then he went and screwed some guy that he knew, and now I’m in London with a broken heart.

“Oh, broken hearted hoover fixer sucker guy.” The song becomes more upbeat, and Harry starts to laugh. A smile even forms on Louis’ lips despite the fact he is singing about his heartbreak. “Oh, broken hearted hoover fixer sucker guy. One day I’ll go there and win him once again. But until then, I’m just a sucker of a guy.”

Harry smiles as the impromptu song draws to a close, but Louis can see an empathetic sadness in his eyes.

“Where is he?”

“Paris.” City of love – Louis wants to scoff. He has no idea why his ex went to Paris, but it feels simultaneously not far enough away and so far away his heart could break with it.

“Is he still with the guy?”

Louis shakes his head. Sometimes that seems like the worst part. Not only did Louis’ ex cheat on him, but it was with someone he couldn’t even have a future with. He destroyed his relationship with Louis for a fling.

“Are you going to go get him?”

Louis shakes his head again. He had thought about it before, of course he had. Always late at night when the loneliness set in, paralyzed him. When he wondered if he had had his one shot at love and lost it. That he wouldn’t get a second chance with anyone because he couldn’t get it right the first time. Those thoughts always drove Louis to check the train schedule to Paris with a half-crazed determination to go and find his ex. But then he would wake up in the morning, and his stepdad would need help with a leaky faucet or had received several hoovers to fix and needed Louis’ assistance. Then he’d find himself staying in London, unable to leave his stepdad and the life he has established.

“No,” Louis reluctantly answers Harry’s question. “Fuck him. He’s gone.” The mood is still fairly serious, so Louis starts playing his guitar again, chanting, “Fuck him. He’s gone. Fuck him; fuck him. Fuck him. He’s gone for good.” Harry starts laughing, which only encourages Louis. His voice grows louder and he bangs his head as he yells, “He fucking fucked off. Fuck him! Fucking –”

His song draws to an abrupt close as the woman at the front of the bus turns around and shoots Louis a disbelieving glare.

“Sorry,” Louis hastily apologizes, waving his hands about in conciliation.

Harry has dissolved into such an intense fit of silent laughter that he can’t even bring himself to speak. He doubles over in laughter, pressing his forehead into Louis’ shoulder as he shakes. Warmth swells in Louis’ chest, and he also leans down to hide his laughter. The two of them silently cackle like two troublemaker students sent to sit in the back of the class for misbehaving.

Louis manages not to offend any other passengers as the bus drops them off a couple blocks from the shop and Louis and his stepdad’s flat above it.

Harry carries the hoover gracelessly down the stairs as if it is his shopping bags, saying a polite thank you to the driver.

Louis’ stepdad’s shop is sandwiched between a kebab shop and an office that’s been to let for as long as Louis and his stepdad have been in London. The Hoover Centre looks fairly bleak and unappealing to an outsider’s perspective, but Louis knows how proud his stepdad is of it. It’s theirs, and they make their way in the world through that little shop. He feels a moment of shyness as to what Harry will think as they approach it, but Harry just smiles as Louis holds the door open for him, making sure the hoover gets all the way inside before Louis shuts the door.

“Hello, Dan,” Louis calls into the shop. Louis hears a muffled response from the backroom which Louis takes to mean that he’ll be out in a moment. Louis watches as Harry looks around while they wait, admiring the different hoovers for sale and the wide workspace, crowded with various tools and spare parts.

Louis’ stepdad Dan appears out of the backroom, looking surprised to see Louis with a visitor. Dan is in his early fifties, but his blonde hair already has streaks of grey, his hair line receding.

“Hullo,” Dan says, looking curiously at Harry.

“Dan, this is Harry,” Louis introduces. Unsure of how to identify Harry to his stepdad, Louis settles with, “He plays music, too. And Harry, this is my stepdad, Dan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Harry says, stepping up to Dan and thrusting his hand out. Dan’s eyebrows rise above his glasses, and he woodenly shakes Harry’s hand.

“Um, Harry’s hoover is broken,” Louis says, quickly stepping up to them and gesturing towards the hoover. “Told him we’d have a look at it.”

“Alright,” Dan agrees uncertainly, as if this is the first time anyone has ever asked him to fix a hoover.

Twenty minutes later, Louis and Dan have identified the problem and are well on their way to fixing it. They work in silence like they always do, but the added presence of Harry makes the silence seem awkward and stilted, not companionable. As if an outsider’s presence has suddenly made Louis aware of how strange the constant silence between him and his stepdad is. The only sounds are when Dan asks for a tool, a muffled grunt that doesn’t inspire further conversation.

“Your stepson is very talented,” Harry says as they finish up the job.

“I would hope so,” Dan replies. “I taught him myself.”

“No, I meant about the music,” Harry clarifies.

Louis’ cheeks flame with embarrassment, not usually one to discuss his music with his stepdad.

“All done,” Louis announces, holding out the fixed hoover part and mercifully ending Harry’s one sided conversation with Dan.

“Wonderful! Thank you so much!” Harry exclaims. “How much do I owe you?”

Louis waves a hand through the air. “Nah, it’s free.”

“Rubbish,” Harry declares, his unexpectedly firm tone making Louis do a double take. “Nothing is free.” Harry looks at Dan, having decided that Louis is no help.

“Um, four pounds,” Dan decides, which is such a considerable discount it might as well have been free.

“Four pounds,” Harry repeats, pulling out a change purse and counting out the correct amount. “Thank you again,” Harry says as he presses the coins into Dan’s hand. He sounds as if Louis and Dan had rescued his lost dog instead of just fixed his broken hoover. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Dan’s eyes light up at Harry’s sincere kindness, and a reluctant smile breaks across his face. “You too.”

“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” Louis says. “You can leave your hoover in the shop and get it on your way out.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Harry says, following Louis up the stairs and leaving the hoover and Dan behind.

Louis’ room isn’t much. As a twenty-eight year old man who lives with his stepdad, his room is a mixture of nostalgic childhood and burgeoning adulthood. Sports trophies cover every surface, as do faded posters he had cut out from magazines. Louis doesn’t mind the décor, because usually no one sees it but him. But with Harry at his side, Louis can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed. He wonders if Harry will think it’s childish. At least the room is clean – that’s a mercy.

“Your stepdad is really nice,” Harry says, sitting down on Louis’ bed. He leans his back against the wall, his feet hanging off the edge.

Louis nods, the strangeness of the situation momentarily making him mute. This unbelievably gorgeous man who waltzed into his life a day ago is now sitting in his bedroom. It makes Louis’ head spin, makes him thank his lucky stars.

“Yeah, he is,” Louis agrees. He stands frozen by the bed and tucks his hands uncertainly in front of him. “It’s been just me and him for a little while. I moved in with him when me mum passed.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Harry says, his eyes earnest with empathy. “How awful.”

Louis nods, feeling that familiar wave of grief wash over him that comes whenever he thinks of his mum.

“My sisters – they’ve got a different dad so they went to live with him. Well, not Lottie and Fizzy since they’re at uni. Phoebe and Daisy do though. The littlest ones, Doris and Ernest, they live with Dan’s sister. It’s hard having us all spread out.”

Harry nods. “I’m sure he appreciates having you here.”

“Yeah, I hope so. We kind of both needed each other after Mum passed.”

“I understand. When my mum decided to move back to England, at first I thought I was just coming for her. But then I realized I was also coming for me, because I didn’t want to be so far from her. I wanted to have that familiarity. I wanted to keep it.”

Louis makes a noise of understanding. “Funny how at a certain point in life we’re considered adults and independent, but it doesn’t always feel that way, does it?”

“No,” Harry agrees gently. “Sometimes I feel as clueless as a child. Just waiting for someone to tell me what to do.”

“Yes, exactly,” Louis says. He sits carefully on the bed next to Harry. Louis makes sure that they don’t touch, too afraid he could potentially spook him. Or maybe spook himself. They sit side by side, their feet hanging off the bed.

“Can I hear another of your songs?” Harry asks.

“Okay,” Louis agrees.

He has an amateur CD he recorded about three months ago that has five of his songs on it. The quality isn’t great, but Louis had still been pleased to hear himself singing on a CD. The CD is in a plain case, resting on a shelf crammed full of Louis’ favorite albums and errant sheet music.

Louis places the CD in the CD player on his desk. The disk starts to spin when Louis hits play, and then he sits back down on the bed next to Harry.

They listen to the five songs in silence. Harry doesn’t even make comments between the songs. Louis feels more vulnerable somehow as they listen to the CD. If Louis had been playing his guitar, he could close his eyes and lose himself in the music. With the CD playing, Louis is no longer the performer. He is a listener, just as Harry is a listener. Louis can do nothing but sit with his hands twitching in his lap and hope that Harry likes what he hears.

When the music comes to a close, Louis glances nervously towards Harry.

“Wow, Louis,” Harry says quietly, breathlessly, but with assurance. “I loved it.”

Louis’ cheeks immediately color with a flush of pleasure, his hands toying with the hem of his sweatshirt. “Really?”

Harry nods emphatically. “Yes, really. Louis, you are so talented. I loved each song. They were all so real, so you, but so universal. And your voice!” Harry groans in a way that makes Louis’ stomach somersault. “You have such a beautiful voice. You truly have such an extraordinary talent.”

“Wow, thanks,” Louis says, rubbing his neck. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Loved it,” Harry corrects.

“Loved it,” Louis repeats with a shy smile.

“Would you be able to put these on another CD for me? I want to listen to them more.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good,” Harry smiles. “It’s getting late; I need to go.”

Impulsive bravery stutters through Louis, not quite ready to say goodbye yet to Harry. In a rush, Louis suggests, “Or you could stay.”

The words hang in the air. It’s as if all the breath has left Louis’ body as soon as he expelled those four words. He glances uncertainly at Harry’s face, but for the first time, Harry’s face is inscrutable. Louis can feel his heart hammering in his throat.

“What?” Harry asks, as if he hadn’t heard what Louis said.

“Stay the night,” Louis says with more confidence, more hope.

But Harry’s eyes darken and his mouth sets into a firm line. “Fuck this,” Harry’s voice is quiet and resolved. He stands and Louis’ heart plummets. “I’m leaving.”

Embarrassment suffocates Louis, hanging his head so he doesn’t have to look Harry in the eye, doesn’t have to watch him go. “Okay, see ya,” Louis mumbles, as if Harry had instead declined his offer to go to the cinema and not an invitation to stay over.

“See you,” Harry says tersely, walking out of the room.

Louis listens to Harry walk down the stairs. There is a momentary pause, maybe as Harry collects his hoover, before the front door shuts firmly, the bell tinkling quietly.

Harry didn’t stomp down the stairs or slam the door, but Louis can feel Harry’s anger as if he had. The bite in Harry’s voice had been louder than any slammed door.

Louis puts his head in his hands, his cheeks hot with mortification. How stupid of him to assume Harry was interested in anything other than Louis’ music. How stupid of him to think Harry could be attracted to him in the way he is so overwhelmingly attracted to Harry. How stupid of him to hope.

“He shows a bit of interest in your music and you fancy he’s in love with you,” Louis mutters to himself, sick with shame.

Harry has been so kind to Louis the past couple of days. He has shown Louis concern and given him attention and praise. And Louis is pathetic enough, desperate enough, to mistake that for romantic affection.

Louis feels nauseous thinking about how uncomfortable Harry must have been. He’d only wanted to hear Louis’ music, not be propositioned. Louis had placed Harry in an awkward position that he didn’t ask to be in simply because Louis is lonely and no longer knows how to read signals. He deserved Harry’s hasty departure.

They have barely known each other for a day. What must Harry think of him now? Some lonely creep that comes on to every person who likes his music?

 _But it’s not like that_ , Louis insists silently. _I’ve never done anything like that, and I wouldn’t. I just didn’t want him to leave. I enjoy his company so much; I wanted him to stay._

But Harry had clearly not wanted to stay.

As Louis dwells on the extent of his wrongdoing, he feels the overwhelming need to apologize. To tell Harry that he is sorry for incorrectly assuming his intentions and therefore making him uncomfortable.

 _I’ll look for him on the Southbank tomorrow_ , Louis thinks. _I’ll apologize. I don’t – I don’t want to lose his friendship just because I did something stupid._

Louis falls asleep fitfully, drafting apologies in his head that he hopes will earn him forgiveness.

 

_Sunday._

It’s not until midafternoon the next day that Louis sees Harry.

He’s been distracted all day, hardly able to focus on his music as he constantly scans the surrounding crowds for any sight of Harry. As the day goes on, Louis starts to fear that Harry won’t come today. That he upset Harry so greatly that he won’t come to the Southbank at all. Maybe he’d go to Oxford Street or Tower Bridge and sell _The Big Issue_ there. Louis has no way of knowing, and he couldn’t stop by Harry’s afterwards because has no idea where in London Harry lives. Harry mentioned he was near the Southbank, but there are still thousands of homes and hundreds of streets nearby that Harry could call home. Louis has no way of finding him, so he just hopes that Harry comes.

Louis is just finishing up his break, sitting on a park bench along the river’s edge when he sees Harry.

Louis stands up immediately, accidentally dropping his bag on the ground and spilling its contents. “Shit,” Louis swears, hastily bending down to scoop everything back into his bag. He looks up frantically to make sure Harry doesn’t disappear in the crowd. Everything quickly stuffed back into his bag, Louis throws his guitar over his shoulder and runs towards Harry.

“Harry!” Louis calls, clumsily dodging tourists standing around as he tries to get to Harry. “Hey, Harry!”

Harry turns around, and the moment their eyes meet, Louis stops. All the anger from last night is still etched into Harry’s expression. His eyes are hard, his mouth set in a firm line – no trace of his usual smile or dimple. Harry grasps a bucket of flowers, single roses that he’s been selling today, along with copies of _The Big Issue_ visible in his bag. People continue to move around them, jostling them slightly as they walk. Louis hugs his guitar case closer to him but is careful not to get too close to Harry.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Louis blurts. “I – I’ve just been so lonely, and you’re gorgeous. And that’s no excuse, I know. I’ve just really enjoyed spending time with you these past few days, but I was wrong to think it was anything other than what it is. I know I fucked up.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. Harry watches him with a steely expression, but he hasn’t walked away, so Louis keeps going. “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It’s not as refined as what Louis had practiced the night before, but it seems to work because slowly, Harry’s face softens.

He nods. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”

Palpable relief surges through Louis. “Thank you. Here,” he digs in his bag, fumbling to pull out the CD that he made for Harry. “I wanted to give you this CD. I put a couple extra songs on there. I thought you might like them.”

“Okay,” Harry accepts it, holding it in his hands against the bucket of flowers. “Do you have a CD player?”

“Yeah,” Louis says gratefully, feeling that in that moment he would give Harry Buckingham Palace if it kept Harry in front of him, smiling ever so slightly and talking to him. He pulls a portable CD player and headphones out of his bag. “The batteries are a bit low, but they should still work.”

“I’ll give it back,” Harry says as Louis hands it to him.

“Keep it,” Louis says, meaning it. He wouldn’t mind if he never saw that CD player again as long as it made Harry smile.

“I have to go,” Harry says after a moment. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Louis feels that same desperate surge that he felt last night to stay with Harry as long as possible. But this time, he is sure to react differently.

“Do you want to get a cup of tea or something?” Louis asks. “I’d love to just sit and chat with you awhile.”

That makes Harry smile, ducking his head. Louis sees a flash of a dimple and his chest feels warm.

“I have responsibilities. I have to go home.”

“Can I walk with you, then?”

Harry looks at him for a moment, but then he nods. “Yeah.”

“Brilliant,” Louis replies, unable to hide the smile on his face.

They start walking together side by side away from the river.

“How’s it been today?” Louis asks, striving for a neutral topic that will let Harry set the tone of the conversation.

“Good,” Harry replies. “It’s been an especially good day because I got a job cleaning in a big house. This lady in Chelsea is going to pay me some money, so I’m very happy about it.”

“That’s great,” Louis says. “I’m so happy for you. When do you start?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll go over everything with her and then have my first full day the day after. It’ll be two days a week, which I think will be good. It’s a big house, so it will give me lots to do. I’ll come to the Southbank and sell flowers on the days I’m not working there.”

“That’s so exciting. I hope it goes well for you.”

“Thank you, me too.”

Harry and Louis walk past Waterloo Station, already teeming with people as rush hour gears up in full force. They bypass the commuters in favor of heading down towards Lambeth North and the Imperial War Museum. The street grows fairly quiet, other than the sounds of trains lazily rolling in and out of Waterloo, and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. It’s always a heavenly feeling leaving the hustle and bustle of central London and going to the more residential parts – places tourists don’t really have any reason to go. This is the real London – its old bricks still covered in Victorian factory soot and the laughter and chatter of people as they sit outside the pub, taking advantage of the mild weather and blowing off steam after a day at work.

Harry lives in a complex right past Lambeth North tube station. Louis can hear different languages being spoken in the pub across the street, and he smiles. He wonders if many other Czech people live in this area, and if Harry has formed a community with them. Louis would hardly be surprised; Harry could befriend anyone if he wanted.

“This is where I live,” Harry says, stopping outside the gate.

“Okay,” Louis says. He doesn’t want to leave. He feels that tug, that desire to stay by Harry’s side.

Thankfully, Harry seems to feel the same. “Do you want to come inside?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, almost too quickly. “That’d be cool.”

“Okay.” Harry grins and leads Louis into the complex.

The complex feels removed from tourist London, but as they climb the stairs to Harry’s flat on the fourth floor, Louis can see the top of Victoria Tower sticking up on the other side of the railroad tracks. Even the lights from the London Eye are visible in the twilight. Louis admires the view as Harry fumbles with the keys, calling out in Czech as the door opens.

A high-pitched, excited squeal welcomes Harry and Louis. Harry crouches down as soon as he is through the door in time to catch a small child barreling towards him.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Harry laughs, kissing the young girl’s face much to her delight. Louis can see a hint of dimples in her smiling cheeks.

Louis watches wide eyed, hardly aware that he is holding his breath. The girl’s big, brown eyes lock onto Louis’ and she shrieks at the sight of a strange visitor.

“Ivana,” Harry chastises lightly. “This is my friend, Louis. Can you say hi?”

“Hi, Ivana,” Louis says, quickly putting aside his shock to slip into the familiar big brother role. He waves at her, pulling a silly face. Ivana laughs, but still hides her face into Harry’s shoulder.

“Oh, are we pretending to be shy?” Harry asks, tickling Ivana’s stomach. She screams with happiness, wriggling out of Harry’s arms and running away on her chubby legs.

Harry chuckles, unwinding the scarf around his neck.

“Is she yours?” Louis asks dumbly. He feels as if he has to know, even if he doesn’t have any right to that information.

Harry meets Louis’ eyes, a serious look on his face. “She is my sister’s,” Harry says quietly. “Gemma passed away two years ago, so I adopted Ivana.”

Louis’ heart squeezes painfully, knowing how hard the loss of a family member is. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you."

“What about her dad?”

Harry shakes his head. “He was never in the picture.”

Louis nods, gazing towards the kitchen where he can hear a woman’s voice and Ivana’s happy chatter.

“So, you have a daughter?”

“I have a daughter.”

Louis smiles, unable to help it. “She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. I always said when she was born that she looked more like me than Gemma anyways. So I take all the credit.”

Louis laughs, his shock ebbing away into a comfortable fondness. “How modest of you.”

Harry grins, his dimple deep in his cheek. “Come. I want you to meet my mum.”

Harry and Louis take off their jackets, laying them across the back of the couch. “Mum,” Harry calls. “I want you to meet my friend.” Louis feels a light pressure against his lower back as he walks through the living room to the kitchen, and his breath stutters. Did Harry just rest his hand on Louis’ back as he leads them through the flat? It is such a domestic yet flirtatious touch that Louis feels his cheeks flaming.

Harry’s mum pokes her head out of the kitchen, and Louis is immediately struck by how similar they look. She is attractive and youthful. Her dark brown hair is pinned up as she cooks, and Louis immediately can see where both Harry and Ivana got their dimples.

“This is Louis,” Harry announces. “Louis, this is my mum, Anne.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Anne says, taking Louis by the shoulders and kissing both his cheeks. “I have heard so much about you.”

Louis’ blush deepens. He doesn’t know how Anne could have possibly heard so much about him in the handful of days that he and Harry have known each other. “It’s so nice to meet you, Anne.”

Ivana clings to Anne’s leg, still watching Louis with caution.

Anne tsks at Ivana, saying something to her in Czech. “Why are you hiding?” She leans down and scoops Ivana up in her arms. She kisses Ivana’s cheek. “She is always a bit shy at first. But give her a little bit of time, and then she will talk your ear off for the rest of the night.”

Anne’s Czech accent isn’t as strong as Harry’s, more Northern than Eastern Europe, but Louis can still hear similarities in how she and Harry speak.

“That’s alright,” Louis says, smiling at Ivana. “I hope we can be friends.”

Ivana watches him critically for a moment before nodding and ducking her face back into Anne’s neck. Anne, Harry, and Louis laugh. Harry places a gentle hand on Ivana’s back.

“Well, now that Ivana approves, would you like to stay for dinner, Louis?” Anne asks.

“Yeah, I’d love that. Thank you.”

“Perfect. It should be ready soon.”

“It smells delicious. Can I do anything to help?”

Anne shoos him away with her spare hand. “You’re sweet, but no. You two go chat.” She pats Ivana’s back. “I have the best little helper here, anyways.”

Harry kisses his mum’s and Ivana’s cheeks before leading Louis back into the living room. They sit down on an old sofa, covered with blankets. The flat is sparse in terms of furniture, but still crowded with items. Ivana’s toys are scattered throughout the room, and a TV sits in front of the couch. The walls are blank, no décor or family photos. A small table is in the corner of the room, only two chairs on either side.

“Your mum is nice,” Louis says. “And Ivana is so sweet.”

Harry grins with pride. “I don’t know why she’s being so shy. But Mum is right – she’ll warm up to you in no time. She loves making friends. She has everyone in the building wrapped around her finger.”

Louis laughs. “That’s how Doris and Ernest are, my two youngest siblings. They’re twins. They could burn the house down and still get away with it. They have five older siblings who do nothing but dote on them.”

Harry laughs. “It’s hard not to spoil them rotten, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they live in London?”

“No they’re up in Doncaster. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen them, actually. I miss them loads. Their aunt sends us pictures every now and then. And my sisters still live up there, so they see them.”

“That’s good.”

“Was it just you and your sister or did you have other siblings?”

“No, just me and Gemma. I couldn’t imagine having so many siblings.” Harry shakes his head. “Gemma and I were at each other’s throats all the time growing up.”

Louis chuckles in agreement, remembering thousands of arguments between him and his sisters. “Thankfully, there is quite an age gap between me and my sisters, so it was usually more of them fighting and me trying to make peace. Or at least telling them to be quiet because I was oldest and knew best.”

Harry laughs. “I can imagine that. Gemma loved to order me around. I think I was her personal servant for the first ten years of my life.”

“Older siblings are evil, aren’t they?” Louis says, a smirk on his lips.

Harry’s eyes shine with mirth as he looks at Louis. “Without a doubt.”

They are quiet for a moment. Softly, Louis asks, “What happened to Gemma? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Harry sighs. “It was a car accident. Gemma wasn’t even driving. She and a friend were going on a weekend away, and they were hit by a drunk driver.” Harry’s voice is thick, and he looks down. “We were told she was killed instantly, which I suppose is a mercy that she didn’t suffer. We’re so thankful that Ivana wasn’t in the car with her. I’d been watching her that weekend.”

“Oh Harry, that’s so horrible.” Louis’ heart breaks, and places a hand on Harry’s knee, squeezing lightly.

“That was one of the main reasons we left Prague. Mum didn’t want to stay after the accident. I didn’t really want to either. We’d been thinking of coming back to England for a while at that point, but that was the deciding factor. It was just too painful to stay.”

“I understand that,” Louis nods. “When my mum passed away, I didn’t really want to stay in Doncaster either. Because I was just constantly reminded how she wasn’t there anymore. I’d walk by all the places we would go together – her favorite shops and restaurants – and think about how I couldn’t take her there anymore. I wanted a fresh start. To go someplace where I didn’t have memories of her on every corner.” Louis shakes his head. “Maybe that sounds awful. I didn’t want to forget, of course not. But it’s hard not seeing her in places where she was always supposed to be. I don’t feel that as much in London.”

“Yes, I feel the same way. The move has been good for Mum and Ivana, too. But we always make sure to tell Ivana about her mummy and how much she loves her.” Harry grins. “We’ve had to explain to her many times that just because I’m her daddy and Gemma is her mummy, it doesn’t mean we’re married. Now she thinks all mummies and daddies are siblings.”

Louis laughs, looking fondly towards the kitchen. “That’s wonderful that you’ve adopted her. She seems very happy.”

“I hope so. Mum and I adore her and do everything we can to give her the best life.”

“She has a dad and a nan who love her – I’d say she’s pretty good.”

Harry smiles softly at Louis, but any further conversation is interrupted by Ivana coming out of the kitchen. She walks towards her toys, but Harry snatches her around the waist, lifting her into his lap.

“What did you learn in nursery today?” Harry asks as Ivana squirms in his lap. “Will you tell me and Louis?”

“Volcanoes,” Ivana says into Harry’s neck.

“Volcanoes?!” Harry exclaims. “Did you learn about how they go boom!” He bounces his knees while lifting Ivana by the waist so that she goes high to the air. She shrieks with excitement, and Louis laughs too.

“Yeah, and about the lava,” Ivana continues enthusiastically, her shyness quickly evaporating. “And how it’s really, really hot so you’re not supposed to touch it.”

“That’s right,” Harry says, kissing her cheek. “Did you sing your alphabet song today?”

Ivana nods.

“Can you sing it for Louis? Show him how well you know your ABCs?”

Reminded by Louis’ presence, Ivana’s shyness returns. She curls in closer to her dad, looking cautiously at Louis.

“Oh, you won’t?” Harry squeezes her sides. “I guess I will then. A, B, C, F, K –”

“Daddy!” Ivana squeals, covering his mouth with her hands. Louis laughs as Harry keeps singing around Ivana’s hands, his words muffled by her small palms. “You’re singing it wrong!”

“I am?” Harry exclaims. “Well then, you have to show me how to sing it.”

Determined to teach her dad the correct alphabet, Ivana starts singing along with Harry. Louis joins in too, which makes Ivana smile.

“Good job,” Harry says when the song draws to a close. He kisses the top of Ivana’s head.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “I messed up a couple of times, but you knew them all! You’re very smart. I can tell you practice.”

“Thank you,” Ivana says, her dimple appearing in her cheek. “I can sing Three Blind Mice, too.”

She is about to launch into her song when Anne announces dinner is ready.

“How about you sing while we get ready for dinner?” Harry suggests. “Do you want Louis to help you wash your hands?”

“Yes, please,” Ivana says, which makes Louis grin from ear to ear.

Harry sets Ivana on the ground, and she holds her hand out to Louis. The simple action of a child’s innocent acceptance and welcoming gives Louis the inexplicable urge to cry. He takes Ivana’s hand, and she leads him into the kitchen. Ivana sings Three Blind Mice as they walk, and Louis joins in. He purposely messes up the words so that Ivana can correct him, which she does with relish. Harry follows them into the kitchen, helping Anne with the hot dishes. Louis can hear him singing along quietly.

A stepstool is in front of the sink, so Ivana takes two practiced steps to stand on top to wash her hands. Louis turns the water on, running his fingers under the tap until it’s warm. Ivana can’t reach the soap, so Louis squirts a vanilla scented dollop into her small hands.

They finish their song, but Ivana immediately begins singing Baa Baa Black Sheep. Louis joins in easily, the songs familiar to him. He remembers singing songs with his siblings for hours and hours when they were little. They especially loved when he played the songs on his guitar while they sang along.

“Hey Ivana,” Louis says softly. “After dinner, do you want me to play some songs for you on my guitar? We can do the ABCs and Baa Baa Black Sheep.”

“Yeah!” Ivana cheers, flapping her hands so that water flies everywhere.

Louis grins, quickly shutting off the tap. He hands Ivana a tea towel so that she can dry her hands.

“You’ll regret offering that,” Harry chuckles behind him. “You’ll play nothing but nursery rhymes all night now.”

Louis grins, holding out a hand to Ivana as she steps down. “That’s alright. I think Ivana and I are going to be better friends than you and me anyways. Right, Ivana?”

“Right!” she exclaims, even though Louis doesn’t think she was paying attention to their conversation.

“Replaced by my own daughter!” Harry laughs, placing a hand on his heart. “I’m wounded!”

“Are you too wounded to carry these dishes to the table?” Anne asks, holding out a pot of stew. “Or will I need to call for an ambulance?”

Louis laughs, and Harry takes the steaming pot from his mum and carries it into the living room.

Since there are only two chairs at the table, Harry and Louis sit there and Anne and Ivana sit on the couch. Ivana doesn’t eat much of the stew, preferring instead to chase the peas and carrots around the bowl with a spoon.

“Harry told me you played with the Prague Symphony Orchestra?” Louis asks Anne.

Anne smiles. “I did. Violin.”

“Did you ever try to teach him?”

“Yes. His fingers have always been perfect for it, but he wanted to play piano.” She shrugs. “But long fingers are good for piano too, no?”

“They are,” Louis agrees, thinking of the way Harry’s fingers had stretched across the keys when he played in the back of the shop. “Did Gemma play?”

“She played cello and piano,” Harry answers, “but she always preferred composing. She’d write songs for the three of us to play.” Harry and Anne share a smile. “We always said we would perform at Smetana Hall in Prague someday. The Styles Trio. We’d sell out all our shows.”

Louis grins. “Of course. Do you want Ivana to learn a musical instrument?”

Harry chuckles. “You can’t really be a part of this family without playing something. When I was about ten, I threatened to quit piano lessons, and Gemma told me that Mum would make me move out if I did.”

Even though her back is turned to him, Louis can practically see Anne rolling her eyes. “And you were more the fool for believing her. I remember you coming to me, crying, saying you didn’t want to move out and you promised to keep up your piano lessons.”

“And here I am – almost fifteen years later and still playing piano!” Harry says, spreading his arms out. “So clearly the threats worked!”

Louis laughs, taking a bite of his stew. “So does that mean you’re twenty-five, then?” He can’t help but ask since he has been curious about Harry’s age. Harry’s slight reference to it seems as good of an opportunity as any.

“Twenty-three,” Harry answers. “My maths were always a bit shit.”

“But your Czech was always very good!” Anne points out.

“Yeah, I wanted to ask about that,” Louis says to Harry. “Did you learn any Czech before you moved to Prague?”

Louis has been wondering about Harry’s time in Prague, and meeting his family has only made him even more curious. Harry’s accent always goes slightly thicker when talking about Prague, and Louis notices it now. Even Anne seems to be falling into more of a Czech accent. They fall in and out of Czech while speaking to Ivana, and Louis can tell she understands a lot of what is being said around her.

Harry shakes his head. “No, I took a special class at school to learn. It was really hard, but I had a leg up on everyone in English class.”

“Gemma and I were learning Czech, too,” Anne says, “so we had a rule where in the evenings for an hour we could only speak Czech to one another.”

“That helped a lot,” Harry nods. “And that’s what we do with Ivana, too. We make sure to speak both English and Czech to her so that she grows up knowing both. She was born in Prague, so we want her to have that link to her heritage.” Harry turns to Ivana and says something in Czech.

She responds in Czech, which makes Harry smile. “I said to her, ‘isn’t that right?’ And she responded, ‘Yes.’ Little things like that – we try to make sure she speaks a bit of Czech every night.”

Having heard Czech being spoken, Ivana walks over to her dad, asking him a question. Harry responds, and Anne says something, too. Louis watches with interest, not able to pick up on any of the words since they don’t share a root with English. But when Anne looks at Louis, says something, and then laughs, Louis’ curiosity is piqued.

“What’d she say?” Louis asks.

Harry grins. “She says you’re handsome.”

Louis blushes. “How do I say thanks?”

“Dík.”

“Dík,” Louis says to Anne.

Anne responds, and Harry translates. “She says you’re welcome.”

Louis grins. “I figured that one out on my own, thanks.”

Harry raises his eyebrows and raises his hands. “You learn one word and suddenly you’re a fluent speaker? I’m sorry; I didn’t realize.”

“Well, you should have,” Louis teases.

“I guess it’s a testament to how wonderful of a teacher I am.”

“Or how brilliant of a student I am.”

Harry hums, unconvinced. “Let’s see if that’s what you’re saying the next time Ivana asks you a question in Czech.”

Harry glances over at Ivana who is sitting on the couch. She is playing with the strap of Louis’ guitar case, tugging on it lightly.

“Ivana, be careful,” Harry chastises gently.

“Oh, she’s grand, she’s grand,” Louis insists. “I’ll sing for her when we finish, if you don’t mind.”

Harry nods, a smile on his face.

They finish up their dinner but Harry declines Louis’ offer to help with the washing up, insisting he play for Ivana instead. Anne sits in a rocking chair by the couch, knitting. Louis sits on the couch, Ivana at his side, and pulls out his guitar. Ivana reaches out, clumsily plucking at the strings.

“What should I play first, Ivana?” Louis asks.

He plays through every nursery song he knows and a couple of Disney songs that his sisters always loved. He and Ivana sing together, her voice sweet and jumbled. When Harry finishes the dishes, he joins them in the living room.

The three of them sing together until there is a knock on the door and three heads poke through.

“Hello,” they greet.

Harry smiles at them, standing up from the couch to welcome them. “Come in.” The three men come inside, offering greetings to Louis. They seem to be in their thirties with thick Eastern European accents. “They live next door,” Harry explains. “They come over to watch telly. We have one of the only ones in the building.”

Louis nods in understanding, smiling at the visitors and also standing up from the couch.

“They like to watch _EastEnders_ ,” Harry says, faux-whispering in a conspiratorial voice.

“It’s how we learn English,” one of the men explains.

“Get outta my pub!” another man exclaims as an example.

“My sister is my mum,” the third man says with a straight face.

Louis laughs as the three men settle in on the couch. Harry and Louis sit again at the dining table.

“Come here, Ivana,” one man says, scooping her up into his arms. “How is my favorite girl today?” Ivana giggles in delight and sits between two of the men while she plays with a doll and they watch the show.

“My mum liked _EastEnders_ ,” Louis says with a nostalgic smile. “We’d take the piss out of it, but she would get so into it. I would too sometimes.”

Ivana falls asleep about ten minutes into the episode, curled up on the couch.

“Will you help me get her to bed?” Harry asks. “Then we can listen to the CD you brought.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees. He gingerly scoops Ivana up from the couch, resting her head gently against his chest. Harry’s neighbors wave good night and blow kisses to the sleeping child.

Harry leads Louis into Ivana’s bedroom on the other side of the kitchen. Like any child’s room, Ivana’s is crowded with toys. Louis makes sure to watch his step as he carries Ivana to bed. Harry pulls back the blankets and Louis carefully lays Ivana down, her eyelids only fluttering slightly as she relaxes into the mattress. Harry bends down to kiss Ivana’s cheek and pulls the blankets up around her.

Carefully and quietly, Harry and Louis creep back out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

“Let’s go down to the front step,” Harry suggests. “That way we can listen to your music, and it won’t have to compete with the telly.”

“Okay.”

They put on their jackets, and Louis takes his guitar and his bag with the CD player in it. He wishes Anne and Harry’s neighbors a good night before they step outside.

The street is quiet. The sun has long since set, and the street lamps buzz lazily down the road. It’s cold, but Louis just burrows into his jacket, his scarf tight around his neck.

They sit on the stoop while Harry listens to Louis’ CD. Louis can only hear a bit of the music through the tiny headphones that Harry wears, but whenever he checks Harry’s facial expression, he’s smiling. Louis feels the same way he did the previous night when Harry listened to a recording of his music. It’s awkward to sit there and wait for a person to pass judgement on his art, but Louis knows that Harry will be gentle.

The last song on the CD is just music, no lyrics. Louis had debated even putting it on the CD, but decided to do so since he liked the melody and thought Harry would too.

“This one doesn’t have any lyrics,” Harry all but yells into the silent street, unable to hear the volume of his voice because of the music in his ears. Harry nods along to the music. “It’s really good. I like it.”

Louis nods. He really likes the song too, but he has struggled coming up with lyrics for it. “I have a few, but they’re not right.”

“What?” Harry asks, still yelling over the music.

Louis chuckles, reaching out to remove one headphone from Harry’s ear. “I said: I have a few lyrics, but they’re not right.”

Harry removes the other headphone, letting it hang from his neck, even as the music keeps playing.

Louis makes an affronted noise at Harry abandoning his unfinished song, but he can’t help but ask, “So what do you think? Do you like it?”

“It’s great.”

“Cool,” Louis smiles. “Would you want to try to write lyrics for it?”

Louis hadn’t premeditated that question at all. It’s just out before he even realizes what he’s saying. But as soon as those words are released into the air, Louis realizes what a brilliant idea that would be. He would love to see what Harry could do with a song he’s been struggling with so much.

“Really?” Harry asks, sounding as if Louis just offered him everything he has ever wanted, instead of just asking him to write some lyrics for an average song. “I could?”

“Yeah. Do you like that idea?” Louis asks nervously.

“Yeah! I’d love to!” Harry agrees enthusiastically.

“Cool, cool.” Louis looks away to hide his grin. Relief and pleasure course through him at the thought of writing with Harry. Of getting to see Harry again and play music with him again. “That’d be good.”

“I can keep the CD player and work on it?”

“Yeah, please do. I was having a bit of trouble with it. It’s too romantic for me anyways.”

Harry grins. “It is romantic. You have a romantic streak.”

Louis laughs dryly. “I _used_ to have a romantic streak.”

“When?”

“When I was your age, I suppose.”

Harry sets his mouth into a line, trying not to laugh. “Oh, I see. You’re an old man now.”

Louis nods as seriously as he can. “I am. I’m dying.”

Harry laughs, nudging Louis playfully with his elbow.

“At what?” Harry teases. “The age of thirty?”

“Oi!” Louis exclaims, shoving at Harry. “Be careful who you’re calling thirty! I’ll have you know that I am still in my twenties, thank you very much. I’m at the lovely age of twenty-eight, and not a year more!”

Harry chuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend your sensibilities. I know the elderly are easy to rile up.”

Louis nearly shrieks in indignation. “You better be careful or this is the last you’ll ever see of me!” Louis warns, unable to keep a burst of laughter out of his voice. “I’ll take my CD player and your hoover and you’ll never hear from me again!”

Louis pretends to stand up, but Harry grabs his arm, pulling him down while he laughs. “No, no. Don’t go. If only because I can’t bear to part with my hoover.”

“Fine,” Louis concedes. “I’ll stay for now.”

They sit together for another moment, their quiet laughter drifting into the night sky.

“I hate to go back on everything I just said,” Harry says, “but I have to go.” He stands up, holding the CD player in his hands. “Thank you for the songs.”

Louis stands up, taking his guitar case and putting it over his shoulder. He turns to Harry, his figure silhouetted by the street lights. Louis holds his hand out to Harry. “Thank you for the company. I needed it.”

Harry’s hand slides into Louis’. They don’t shake hands like formal business partners, but instead they just hold the other’s hand for a moment in a firm grasp, squeezing light.

“Me too,” Harry admits, a kind smile on his face.

Louis reluctantly lets go of Harry’s hand and steps away. Immediately, his instincts fight him, wanting to stay in Harry’s company longer.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go for a walk or a late night coffee?” Louis asks hopefully.

Harry smiles at him, and Louis can see in his eyes that he does want to go. But still, something holds him back. “No, I can’t,” Harry answers gently. “Good night.”

“Okay,” Louis nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow though?”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you.”

Louis steps away from the stoop, able to see Harry as he climbs the steps to his flat. Harry waves from the balcony, and Louis waves back. As Harry’s door shuts, Louis stands there for a moment, willing Harry to come back. To say he’s changed his mind because he isn’t quite ready to say goodbye to Louis yet either.

But as the door remains shut, Louis somehow convinces his feet to start moving, heading up towards Waterloo so that he can catch a bus home.

 

_Monday._

Louis’ guitar is in one hand and a pencil in the other as soon as he wakes up the next day.

He writes all through the morning, only taking a short break to help Dan with some work. Then, it’s right back to writing.

As he plays, Louis thinks about Harry and how he smiled last night as he listened to Louis’ recording. How Harry kissed Ivana’s cheeks and helped his mum and opened his flat to his neighbors.

Louis thinks about Harry, but he writes about his ex. Always going back to him, as if Louis knows no other subject. His ex was the topic of Louis’ songs when they were together and the topic of his songs when they broke up. As Louis sings about his ex’s lies, lies, lies, Louis wonders if he even remembers how to write about anything else.

What Louis told Harry is true – he is lonely. He receives some form of human connection while playing his music on the Southbank. People stop to talk to him every now and then, but that’s not the same as a deep, personal relationship. To show himself to someone and to see their true self as well and just feel acceptance.

He’s felt that the past few days with Harry.

Louis cannot deny his attraction to Harry which only strengthens the more he learns about him. Their connection deepens each moment they spend together. Just the thought of Harry makes Louis feel giddy. An unbidden smile forms on his lips as he remembers Harry’s promise to meet him today.

But Harry has made it clear that he doesn’t feel the same. Even though he seems to enjoy Louis’ company as well, it is clear that he doesn’t want anything romantic to happen between them.

Even though the thought of being Harry’s boyfriend – of holding his hand and kissing that sweet, full mouth – fills Louis with longing, he knows it’s not an option. He will respect Harry’s boundaries and content himself with Harry’s friendship.

But Louis misses physical intimacy. He misses being held and kissed, feeling the weight of someone against him. He misses the warmth of a lover in bed with him at night, keeping him from getting too cold as he sleeps.

Louis’ ex didn’t want to break up. He cheated, but he didn’t want to lose Louis, or so he said. Louis, in the midst of his hurt and rage, said his ex had already lost him. Louis had been the one to end the relationship. His ex had asked forgiveness and had wanted to work it out.

But Louis told him to leave.

So he did. And Louis has been lonely ever since.

Harry’s insistence that Louis still cares for his ex and should try to get him back has resonated a little too closely with Louis. Maybe even closer than Harry may think. Before he met Harry, Louis had been thinking of trying to reunite with his ex. Reaching out to him now that the wounds aren’t as fresh. Not necessarily healed, but not as painful. More like a dull, constant ache that he has grown accustomed to. Louis could see where his ex stands, and if he still cares for Louis…maybe they could give it another go.

Maybe Louis deserves better than someone who cheated on him, but that argument begins to fall flat under the weight of loneliness. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like a good enough reason.

Louis’ ex had received the job offer in Paris shortly before Louis found out he’d cheated. Louis had considered moving to Paris then. He had researched housing costs and standard of living. He had researched the music scene and found it promising.

The day Louis decided to move to Paris was the day he found out the person he would be moving for had betrayed him.

At the time, Louis had been grateful his ex had moved to Paris. Out of Peckham, out of London, out of England, out of the UK. Far enough away that Louis never had to worry about running into him. Far enough away that Louis could pretend his ex wasn’t real, that he had never happened.

Paris still seems far away at times, but sometimes Louis remembers it’s just across the Channel. A two and a half hour train ride. An hour flight. That short distance shouldn’t stand in the way of Louis getting to love and be in love. To be happy again.

Louis had been so in love. So in love and so happy before his ex broke his heart.

Maybe he was too quick to throw away what they had. Maybe he should have forgiven his ex and tried to work through it.

But maybe then he wouldn’t have met Harry. He never would have written the song begging his lover to leave, the song that made Harry stop and listen. Maybe what drew Harry to Louis was the heartbreak in his music, and without that, Harry wouldn’t have stopped that night.

Maybe Louis would still be with his ex, but then he never would have met Harry.

Louis is not sure if it’s worth it.

Meeting Harry has invigorated Louis in a way he didn’t know he needed. His faith in his music has strengthened and his creative output has flourished. Maybe Harry is right – maybe Louis could get his ex back.

Maybe moving to Paris would get him out of the rut he’s been in. Even if his ex doesn’t want him back, Louis would be in a new music scene. He could try out Paris just liked he tried out London. Maybe French record labels would be more interested in his music than British ones.

Louis takes his laptop from his desk to look up studios in Paris, but his finger drags along the touchpad, clicking the hidden folder of pictures and videos of him and his ex that Louis was never able to bring himself to delete.

They look so happy in all the photos. Louis looks young and fresh faced, wearing a smile in each picture. Love looks good on him.

The pictures don’t tell the full story, of course. They were having problems even before Louis found out he was being cheated on. He knows the happiness in these photos was not the constant of their relationship. They fought. They fought over everything – bills, their families, personality differences, the thermostat, communication (or lack thereof).

But Louis had also felt love. They fought, but all couples fight. Louis doesn’t think he would mind the fighting anymore because it would mean that someone was there. That he wasn’t alone.

Louis is tired of being alone.

Minimizing out of the picture, Louis opens up his internet browser. He opens the Eurostar website and searches trains from London to Paris.

 

Louis finds Harry later that day on the Southbank selling flowers. Louis jogs up to him, making his way through the crowd.

“Hey,” Louis says, reaching out to lightly touch Harry’s arm in greeting as he arrives at his side.

Harry turns at Louis’ touch, smiling at him. “Hey. How are you?”

“Good,” Harry says. “I’ve made a couple of sales.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. How are you?”

“I’m good, yeah.” Louis rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve decided to go to Paris.”

“Really?” Harry exclaims. His eyes widen in excitement, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

“Yeah.”

“That’s great! When do you leave?”

“Friday.”

“Friday,” Harry nods. “That’s soon.”

Three days.

“Yeah, it is.”

“That’s wonderful.” Harry shifts his bucket of flowers to his hip, waving his free hand through the air. “You’ll get your boyfriend back and get a record deal and become famous.”

Louis chuckles, stomach churning. He’s felt on the verge of vomiting ever since he made the decision and bought the train ticket a couple of hours ago. But he also feels strangely light, as if this decision was what he needed to feel like he’s finally in control of his life again. Not just a passive observer. He is going to Paris, going to get his ex back, and going to get a record deal. It’s all going to happen.

“Look,” Louis says timidly, “I was thinking before I go that I want to do a recording of my music. And I really like the way you played and sang, and I was wondering if you’d record with me.” His words come out rushed, feeling more nervous about asking this favor of Harry than he did when purchasing his train ticket.

“Me?” Harry exclaims. “You want me to play and sing?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes! I’d love that!”

“Cool, cool,” Louis grins. “So you’ll be in my band for a few days, then?”

“Definitely.”

“Perfect. Well that’s one thing sorted.”

“What’s the next thing?”

“A studio that can fit me in with such short notice.”

Harry nods, thinking for a moment. “There’s one near the music store. Should we try there?”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

They start walking together, weaving through the crowd.

“What have you done today?” Louis asks.

“I started my new job at the house in Chelsea,” Harry replies.

“Oh really? How’d it go?”

“It was good. The lady was very nice, and the house wasn’t too big. It only took me a couple of hours.”

“That’s great, Harry. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you. What about you? What have you done today?”

“Helped Dan around the shop a bit,” Louis replies. “Wrote a new song.” He chuckles. “Decided I’m going to Paris.”

Harry nods. “Will you play your new song for me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” Harry smiles. “What did Dan say about you leaving?”

“He didn’t say much.” Louis shrugs. “Just said ‘okay’ and reminded me to tell my sisters.”

“I bet he’s proud of you.”

“Eh, he’s probably glad to see the back of me. He doesn’t really need my help at the shop.”

“Still, I’m sure he appreciates the company.”

“I guess so.”

They walk in silence for a moment, stopping at a crosswalk as they wait for the light to change.

“Ivana asked about you this morning,” Harry says. “She wanted to know when you’ll come over again to play. I promised I would ask.”

Louis smiles, pleased to know that Ivana enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed hers. “I’d love to play with her again. Tell her anytime.”

Harry nods. His voice is oddly removed when he says, “Until you leave on Friday, that is.”

The light changes and Harry starts walking again. Louis doesn’t immediately follow, Harry’s words causing him to come up short.

“Oh, right.”

Louis quickens his step, catching up with Harry.

He hadn’t thought about how going to Paris would mean not being able to further his friendship with Ivana. She had taken such a liking to him and his music. Louis misses his younger siblings, so being around a child again filled him with that same joy he felt when he was with them.

Louis’ heart sinks at the thought of not seeing Ivana again, and Louis wonders if he’d also heard a note of disappointment in Harry’s voice.

Harry’s enthusiasm for Louis’ plan to go to Paris shouldn’t have been a surprise – and yet it had been. Louis wonders if a part of him had maybe hoped that Harry would show some sort of sadness at Louis’ imminent departure and the end of their short lived friendship. Even though at first Harry encouraged Louis to go after his ex, maybe Harry had changed his mind now that he has spent some time with Louis. If he enjoyed his friendship enough to want him to stay.

Louis wonders if he would stay if Harry asked.

Not even if he asked, but if Harry showed any sign that he didn’t want Louis to go.

But Harry reacted with nothing but excitement and jubilation, as if he truly wants Louis to go. The only sadness he had shown towards Louis leaving was in regards to Ivana, not to himself.

Harry knows that this is what’s best for Louis, and Louis thinks so too.

The recording studio is only a block away from the music store where Harry and Louis had gone a couple of days ago. Harry walks in confidently as if he is a big name musician who has recorded all his biggest hits there. Louis follows behind him with less assurance, holding tightly to this guitar strap to keep him grounded.

“Hi,” Harry greets the receptionist. “We would like a tour please.” He nods towards Louis. “He’s thinking about recording his album here, and it’ll be the biggest hit you’ll ever have.”

The receptionist looks unconvinced as Louis turns beet red, but he calls for someone to take Harry and Louis around.

The administrator leads them into the studio at the back of the building. “Alright, so let me give you the tour. This is our live room,” she points towards one room. “And this is the desk. It’s brand new, state of the art. You got your hard drive and you got your outboard gear. All in all, we’re talking about three grand.”

“Three thousand?” Harry exclaims, before Louis can even think. “You’re crazy!”

The sound engineer shrugs. “That’s a pretty good deal. How about you have a look around and let me know what you think.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, nodding at her. She walks out of the room, leaving Harry and Louis alone.

Louis walks to the desk, touching some of the buttons lightly with his fingertips. He’s never recorded in a proper recording studio like this before, and it feels surreal. He imagines listening back to one of his songs while sitting in this studio, his voice filtering clearly through the speakers.

“What do you think?” Harry asks, leaning close to Louis with his voice lowered, as if he is worried the administrator can still hear them.

“I think it’s pretty good,” Louis replies. “How about you?”

Harry looks at the desk and then towards the live room, a serious and thoughtful expression on his face. He nods resolutely and then turns towards the door, calling for the administrator.

“We’ll give you a thousand for it.”

The administrator laughs, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I can fill this place in an hour.”

“Have you heard his music?” Harry demands, gesturing towards Louis.

For the second time since entering the studio, Louis feels himself turning red. Maybe if the walls were also red, he could blend in with them. But unfortunately, they’re an ugly beige.

“No, I can’t say I have,” the administrator replies.

“Well, he’s great,” Harry declares. “All his songs are amazing. He is going to be the next big thing, and it would be your studio that recorded his album! We’ll give you fifteen hundred for the privilege. That’s my limit.”

The administrator rocks back on her heels, looking hesitant. “We can talk about two.”

“We don’t talk,” Harry says firmly, but then he smiles. “We shake. We shake on two now.” Harry thrusts out his hand, shaking the administrator’s with enthusiasm.

Louis feels palpable relief, shaking her hand too.

“He drives a hard bargain,” the administrator says, sounding impressed.

“He does,” Louis agrees, smiling at Harry with pride. “He’s a tough cookie. Thank you so much.”

Louis doesn’t know if he’s thanking Harry or the administrator. He supposes that both work.

They hammer out the details and when they leave, Louis has a slot at the recording studio with his name on it.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” Louis exclaims as soon as they step outside. He punches his fists happily in the air, turning towards Harry. Harry smiles at him, his dimples deep in his cheeks.

They come together before Louis is even conscious of it, wrapping around each other in a celebratory hug. Harry is warm and solid against Louis, and Louis has to lean upwards slightly to hook his chin over Harry’s shoulder.

“Congratulations,” Harry says, his voice muffled. “You’re one step closer to that record deal.”

“Thank you,” Louis grins, pulling back from Harry. “You were amazing in there.”

Harry shrugs, but a prideful grin is still on his face. “I grew up haggling in Czech markets. I know how to get a deal out of anyone.”

Louis laughs. “Well, maybe you can help me haggle the banker into giving me a loan then.”

“With pleasure,” Harry grins. He steps back from Louis, a critical expression on his face as he looks him over. Louis’ eyes widen at the sudden inspection, but he stands still as Harry thinks.

Eventually, Harry nods resolutely. “We need to get you a suit.”

They walk to a nearby resell shop that Harry knows of. There’s a sign hanging above the door that says, “Wear it Again, Sam.” It’s small and crowded full of clothes, but relatively empty of people. Harry immediately ushers him towards the back, pulling three different suits off the rack for Louis to try on.

“I love this shop,” Harry says through the curtain as Louis tries on the first suit. It’s grey and sleek, something he imagines an important business person wearing. “So many colors. Not very expensive. Nice fashions. I buy all of my clothes here.”

Louis hasn’t been clothes shopping in years. The jumper he wore today is at least four years old – older than Ivana. He doesn’t really see the point in buying new clothes when his size never changes. Clothes he bought years ago still fit, so he doesn’t feel the need to buy new ones. As he tries on the grey suit, looking at himself in the mirror, he feels a bit of a thrill at seeing himself in something new. At seeing himself looking good in that outfit.

“Okay, you ready?” Louis calls.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

Louis steps out from behind the curtain, looking nervously towards Harry.

He needn’t have worried though. Harry beams as soon as he sees him.

“You look great!” Harry exclaims. He steps away from the hats and comes to Louis’ side. Harry places his hands on Louis’ shoulders, spinning him so that he can see the suit from all angles. “It fits you perfectly. You look like you work on Wall Street.”

Louis grins. “It does look rather nice, doesn’t it?” Harry stops spinning him, and Louis gets a good look at Harry. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Harry laughs, touching the hat on his head. It’s bright pink with feathers sticking out of the top. It would not have been out of place at a royal wedding.

“Love a hat,” Harry grins. He takes it off his head and puts it back on the shelf. “But you really do look wonderful.”

Louis smiles bashfully and turns towards the man at the front counter. “How does it look?”

The worker looks up, uninterested. He gives Louis a once over and shrugs. “You look gorgeous.”

Harry chuckles, tapping on Louis’ arm. “Go try on the other ones. I want to see which I like best.”

The other suits are the same style but one is in navy and the other is in black. They go with the grey suit because Louis feels like it is the least stuffy of the three suits. Harry tries on at least four more hats before they leave, but only Louis walks out of the shop with a purchase.

Louis feels strange walking into the NatWest by Waterloo while wearing a brand new (for him) suit with Harry at his side. He wonders if there are people that always feel like this – deserving of what they pursue. And not only deserving, but that it is tangible. That all he has to do is go through a few formalities and he will have whatever he wishes.

Louis wonders if he feels that way because of the suit or because of Harry, strolling in confidently next to him.

The teller at the front desk directs them to the small loans manager, sitting at a desk by one of the far windows.

“Good afternoon,” he greets, shaking Louis’ and then Harry’s hands. “How can I help you today?”

Louis opens his mouth to begin, but Harry beats him to the punch. “We are looking to receive a loan of two thousand pounds. My friend here, Louis Tomlinson – you need to remember that name because he is going to be the next big thing in music – he is looking to record his first professional record. The loan would cover the cost of using the recording studio for twenty-four hours.”

The manager raises an eyebrow, appearing slightly intrigued but still unconvinced. Louis folds his sweaty hands in his lap, making sure his back is straight and that he appears as confident as Harry.

Harry is the picture of ease as he pulls Louis’ CD player out of his bag and begins playing the recording for the small loans manager. Louis’ voice is static as it filters through the small speakers, filling the quiet bank with his music. Louis watches the manager who is listening intently. He nods along to the music, a song Louis had written about finding out his ex had cheated on him. The song is raw and full of emotion, too intense for the small bank. Despite that, the manager seems intrigued, and Louis feels hope surging through him.

“The quality is poor,” Harry says, “but if we can get a professional tape, I am satisfied that Louis can secure a lucrative deal.”

The small loans manager nods, but Louis can’t tell if he is still just moving his head to the music.

The song draws to a close, and Harry takes the CD out of the player. “You take it home,” Harry says, placing the CD on the desk in front of the manager, not waiting for him to take it. “You listen to it. You play it for your boss. I’m sure you can get them to approve.”

The manager doesn’t react for a moment, and then he looks towards Louis.

“You wrote this?” he asks.

“Yes,” Louis nods, his pulse hammering in his throat. He wonders if the small loans manager can see it. If he’s like an animal that can sense fear.

“Can I show you something?”

The question throws Louis off guard, and he casts an uncertain glance towards Harry. Harry looks at him too, and Louis can see a flicker of confusion in Harry’s eyes as well.

“Okay,” Louis agrees slowly.

“Can I see your guitar?”

Louis’ innate response is to refuse, scared that the small loans manager will throw his precious instrument out the window and tell him to get a sensible job as opposed to music.

But he knows that refusing would not help his cause either, so Louis reluctantly hands over his guitar.

The small loans manager stands up, places the guitar on his knee, and then for the entire bank to hear, begins to sing his own original song.

His voice is pitchy and unpleasant, his hand too rough on the old guitar strings. Despite this, the small loans manager sings as if he is on stage at Wembley and he is performing before a crowd of thousands. He sings with his whole soul, even if Louis does want to cover his ears to drown out the sound.

Louis casts a glance over to Harry who is also watching the manager with wide eyed horror and his mouth slightly agape. He looks frozen, like a distorted wax figure at Madame Tussauds. Louis fights a growing smile on his lips, and turns to watch the manager continue his performance.

The song draws to a screechy close, and the manager hands Louis’ guitar back to him.

“Well, what did you think?” he asks.

“I –” Louis stutters.

“It –” Harry tries.

Louis shakes his head. “Mate, it just wasn’t good.”

Harry nods. “It really wasn’t.” Before the small loans manager can say anything, Harry continues in a rush, “But you definitely have the passion for it. Anyone in here could tell you that. It was really evident in the way you played.”

“It’s true,” Louis agrees desperately. “It was evident that you love it. Half the people on the radio now just perform like robots, and you had more enthusiasm and love for it than they do by a long shot. God’s honest truth, mate.”

The small loans manager nods thoughtfully. Then he opens a folder on his desk and pulls out a form, a pen in his hand.

“You said you needed two thousand?”

 

There are two men playing rock music on the Southbank in front of the National Theatre. Louis sees them around when he comes to play, but he has never really spoken with them much other than the odd pleasantry.

One is on the drums and the other is holding a guitar. They both sing, but there isn’t much of a crowd around them.

Louis feels confident as he walks up to them, all thanks to the man at his side and the signed paperwork in his bag guaranteeing a two thousand pound loan.

Louis makes eye contact with the guitarist as he and Harry approach, and Louis offers him a smile.

Their song draws to a close, and Louis steps closer to them. “Nice one, lads. How’s it going?”

“Alright. How’s it going?” the guitarist responds.

“Good. How’s it today?” Louis asks, wanting to establish himself as one of the Southbank buskers in case they don’t recognize him. “Is it slow today?”

“Have a look there yourself,” the drummer says with a thick Irish accent, nodding towards the open guitar case on the ground.

“Is that it?” Louis chuckles, looking at the handful of coins in the case. “Slow day.”

“Yeah, that’s how it’s going at the moment,” the guitarist replies with a laugh.

Louis nods, trying to find a way to segue into the question he needs to ask the two musicians. “I know we’ve never properly met before, but I always see you around playing. I’m usually down the pavement a little bit, closer to the London Eye.”

“Yeah, I recognize you,” the drummer says.

 Louis smiles, relieved they’ve seen him around. “Well, I’m Louis, and this is Harry.”

“Alright?” the guitarist asks, nodding towards Harry. “I’m Liam.”

“I’m Niall,” says the drummer.

“Listen,” Louis says, “I wanted to ask you. Me and Harry are making a recording of a few songs down at the studio, and I was wondering if you’d be around tomorrow if you’d be interested in doing a bit of recording?”

“A bit of recording?” Liam asks, interest in his voice.

“Yeah, a bit of recording.”

“Doing Thin Lizzy stuff?” Niall asks.

Louis’ eyebrows raise, surprised by the question. He casts a glance over to Harry, who is being oddly silent in this exchange. Louis supposes that Harry has led the charge most of the day, so it’s only fair that Louis finally takes the initiative.

“No.” Louis shakes his head, his voice slightly confused. “It’s not Lizzy. It’s me own songs.”

“We only do Lizzy,” Niall says, sounding daunted at the prospect of playing anything other than The Boys are Back in Town. “That’s kind of our thing.”

“Is it like Lizzy?” Liam asks. “Rock stuff or…?”

“Uh, no it’s not.”

“Is it singer-songwriter?” Niall asks.

“Yeah, singer-songwriter,” Louis replies.

“Is it any good?”

“Uh,” Louis hesitates, still reluctant to brag on his own music.

Thankfully, Harry does not share those qualms. “It’s great,” he assures them.

Niall shrugs. “You always seem to have a good crowd over there. The people really seem to like your music.”

Louis blushes, unaware that other buskers on the Southbank thought people enjoyed his music. “Thanks, mate. That’s really kind of you.”

Niall looks at Liam. “I don’t know about you, but I’d be up for doing a bit of recording. Even if it isn’t Lizzy.”

“Is there any rapping on any of your songs?” Liam asks.

“Uh, no,” Louis answers.

Niall cackles, one of his drum sticks landing noisily on the cymbal. “Liam fancies himself a rapper. Never gets much of a chance singing rock songs all day long. This could have been your chance, mate!”

“Sorry, yeah. No, there’s no rapping.” Louis fumbles in his bag, pulling out his sheet music. “These are the songs I’m planning on recording. Think they look like something you’d be interested in playing?”

Louis hands his notebook over to Liam and Niall who look through it quizzically.

“This looks good,” Niall says. “I’m up for it.”

“Yeah,” Liam nods, but still seems hesitant. “You could be a rubbish singer, but these songs look pretty good.”

Louis laughs. “I don’t think I’m a rubbish singer, but I’ll let you decide that.”

“He’s not,” Harry assures them.

“Do you want to go to the pub tonight?” Louis asks. “We can find one with an open mic night and I can do a couple of my songs for you. See what you think.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Liam says. “Been a while since I’ve played in a pub. We can see if the audience there is more forgiving than the tourists here.”

Louis laughs, all too aware that the crowds of tourists can sometimes be a ruthless audience. “Sounds good, mate.”

“I know a pub just down the street,” Niall says. “The owner is a friend of mine, so he wouldn’t mind if we got up and played some songs.”

“That’d be great, yeah.”

“Okay. How about me and Liam finish up here in about another hour so? And we could meet you there?”

“Yeah, cool.”

Niall gives them directions to the pub, and then Louis and Harry wave goodbye.

“I don’t really know much about them,” Louis tells Harry, “but they’ve always seemed nice. And they’re good musicians.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I just have to call my mum first, and then we can head over to the pub.”

“You don’t mind staying out a bit late?” Louis asks, thinking about Ivana.

“No, it’ll be fun,” Harry says.

They find a payphone outside of Waterloo Station, and Harry quickly steps inside to call his mum. People bustle around them, the station teeming with people as rush hour approaches. A never ending flow of people seem to pour in the station, and Louis makes sure to stick close to the phone box, worried that he would be swept up in the current.

After a few minutes, Harry steps out of the phone box, a smile on his face. “Okay, we can go now.”

“Okay, cool.”

They walk towards Southwark, the pub that Niall directed them to not far off from the tube station there.

The pub is warm and not too crowded for a Monday night. Harry and Louis find a booth in the back corner under a dartboard and a sign for the Great British Beer Festival 1979.

Louis sets his guitar down against the wall, and he and Harry go up to the bar to order food and drinks.

“You here for the open mic night?” the bartender asks, nodding towards Louis’ guitar as he pours Louis’ pint.

“Um, yeah,” Louis answers.

“Sign-ups are over against the wall,” he says. “They’ll probably start in an hour or so.”

“Okay, cheers,” Louis says, taking his pint from the bartender. Nerves churn in his stomach, so he takes a hasty sip to calm them. Louis steps aside so Harry can order and walks back to the table.

When he lifts his glass again, Louis notices that his hands are trembling. He laughs humorlessly at himself and places his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers together.

The relentless pace of the day has kept him from fully realizing what exactly he has decided to do. He hasn’t had a moment to stop and think all day, but as he sits alone in this pub, it starts to catch up with him.

He’s fulfilling a lifelong dream by recording music in a professional studio. He’s going to Paris. He’s going to get his ex back. He’s leaving Harry.

He’s leaving Harry.

Louis glances over to the bar, but Harry isn’t there anymore. He must have gone to the loo or something. Louis looks at his beer glass, at the amber liquid and the thin, white foam. He needs to get used to Harry not being in his sights anymore. To look up and no longer see Harry – that will soon be his norm. That is what he has freely chosen in his decision to go to Paris. No more discussing music together, no more playing with Ivana, no more seeing Harry’s dimples when Louis makes him laugh.

Louis’ eyes flicker up, and they land on Harry, walking across the bar towards him with a pint in his hands. Instinctively, Louis smiles, his insides thundering with a different kind of nerves than the ones he was feeling before. Harry smiles back, full and bright, with his dimples on full display.

Louis watches him unabashedly, his heart in his throat. If Louis has to leave Harry, he’s going to make sure he gets his fill of him before Friday.

If that is even possible.

“Hey,” Louis greets, sounding a bit breathless, as Harry sits down.

“Hey,” Harry replies. His smile is so wide that Louis can’t help but wonder. Surely Harry wouldn’t look at Louis like that if he didn’t care for him. “I signed you up.”

“What?” Louis asks, unsure what Harry is talking about.

Harry nods towards the small stage in the corner where microphones are being set up. “For the open mic.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “You did?”

Harry nods. “You didn’t go over there when the bartender told you about the sign-ups.”

“Oh, well, I –” Louis stammers, unsure of a reason to offer for why he didn’t immediately sign up. Maybe he was hoping that when Niall and Liam arrived, they could just sing and play at the table instead of…performing.

He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous to perform. Performing music is one of his greatest passions. But something about this makes the move feel so much more real. As if this performance is his swan song.

“You’re fifth on the list. I signed you up as The Hoover Guy.”

Louis snorts. “Never considered that as my stage name.”

Harry grins. “I can already hear arenas full of people chanting for you.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Are you sure that’s a beer you ordered and not something stronger?”

Harry smirks, sipping his drink. “It’s cider.”

Louis chuckles, raising his own glass. Harry lightly taps their glasses together, the quiet “tink” of the glass like the opening chord to a song.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Louis sips his beer for a moment then scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth. “I meant to ask you – that song I gave you last night. Have you written any lyrics for it?”

Harry grins. “I have.”

“Oh, cool. Can I hear them?”

Harry nods. “I’m fourth on the sign up list.”

“You what?” Louis blanches. “You’re going to sing tonight?”

Harry’s expression is devilish, like he’s plotting some grand scheme. “I am.”

Louis smiles, excited at the promise of getting to hear Harry sing. “Can I hear a preview?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nope.”

Louis sticks his bottom lip out in a pout which makes Harry laugh. “Please?”

“If it doesn’t work when Ivana does it, it won’t work when you do.”

Louis laughs, conceding. “She _is_ a lot cuter than I am.”

“Undoubtedly,” Harry says, his eyes shining with mirth.

“Well, I hope you know you’re really building this up,” Louis says, leaning back in the booth. “It better be worth it.”

Harry smirks. “It will be.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

As Harry opens his mouth to respond, the door to the pub opens and Niall and Liam walk in. Since Louis is facing the door, he waves at them in greeting. Harry turns to look and waves.

“Alright, lads?” Niall asks, walking up to the table and putting down his boxed drum set. It looks bulky to carry around, and Louis can see clear relief on Niall’s face to be free of his burden.

“Alright,” Louis responds, nodding at Niall and Liam.

“I’m gonna get a pint,” Niall says. “You want anything, Liam? Lads?”

Harry and Louis shake their heads no, but Liam says, “I’ll come with you. I need to use the toilet anyways, and I want to order some food.”

They step away, and Harry and Louis rearrange their belongings to make room for Niall and Liam in their booth. They come back a few minutes later, Niall with a pint and Liam with a Coke.

“I’m looking forward to hearing your music,” Niall says as he sits down next to Louis. Liam sits at Harry’s side, the two smiling politely at each other.

“Thanks, mate,” Louis replies.

“Is this your first album you’ve done?” Niall asks.

“Professionally, yeah. Everything else has been amateur. How about you lads?”

“First time for me, yeah,” Niall answers. “Always wanted to though, of course. I’m buzzing that you asked us to record with you.”

“Cheers. I’m glad you agreed.”

“I’ve done back up on a friend from uni’s album a couple years back,” Liam says proudly. “They were called Twisted Fate. Have you heard of them?”

Louis and Harry shake their heads no.

Liam shrugs. “Figures. After their first album, Jim accused Bitty of stealing his car and had him arrested, Broke the band up, that did.”

Louis can’t help the laugh that escapes him, even though he isn’t sure whether or not Liam intends it to be a humorous anecdote. Louis glances across the table to see Harry also smiling, so at least he isn’t the only one who finds it funny.

“I’d say having your bandmate arrested would break up a band, yeah,” Louis chuckles.

“Did Bitty really steal Jim’s car?” Harry asks, intrigued.

“No,” Liam says. “Jim had a night out and parked his car in a garage. Got way too drunk and took a taxi home. When he sobered up, he couldn’t remember how he got back and thought his car was stolen. He always thought Bitty had an eye out for his car, so he took no time at all to report him to the police. Daft bastard. After Bitty was arrested, his alibi checked out and the police found Jim’s car in the garage, just a couple blocks from the pub. But the damage with Bitty had been done by then.”

Louis laughs at the ridiculous story, feeling himself relax. Across from him, Harry also chuckles, an amused smile on his face.

“I love that story more and more every time I hear it,” Niall says, wiping at his eyes. “I always tell Liam that I know exactly how to break up our band if the time ever comes.”

“It definitely sounds effective,” Harry nods.

Liam rolls his eyes. “You don’t even have a car.”

As Liam is talking, the bartender arrives at their table with Harry’s and Louis’ food. Louis has a plate of bangers and mash while Harry ordered a cheese pizza. The food is hot and smells delicious, so they dig in.

“Yum,” Louis says around a warm bite. “This is so good. I hope they have good pub food in Paris. Not just snails and croissants and what not.”

Harry snorts. “Well that’s what Paris is famous for – their British style pubs.”

Louis rolls his eyes as Liam asks, “Are you two going to Paris?”

Louis raises his hand. “I am. That’s why I’m doing a recording. I’m going to try the music scene in Paris.”

“Oh, that’ll be sick,” Niall says excitedly. “I have a mate who moved there after spending a bit of time here and in Dublin, and he’s had a lot of success in Paris.”

“Oh, really?” Louis asks, feeling encouraged by this unknown person’s good fortune. “That’s great.”

“Yeah, he’s really happy there. He busks but he also has a steady gig on a dinner cruise ship on the Seine. He does the music, and he says he’s always getting interrupted because of people proposing.”

Louis laughs, easily imagining the high number of proposals that would happen as the ship would pass the sparkling Eiffel Tower.

“I can give you his number if you like?” Niall offers. “He’s really friendly. Always likes meeting new people.”

Liam nods. “It’s true. He visited last year and it was like I gained a new best friend whether I wanted to or not.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t like him!” Niall demands, affronted. “You two were hanging out without me before the week was over.”

“That was only because he wanted to go see the Tower of London, and you think it’s a rubbish tourist trap,” Liam argues.

Niall rolls his eyes, ignoring Liam. “So, would you like me to give you his number? It’s always nice having a contact when you’re going to a new city where you don’t know anyone.”

Louis opens his mouth to say that he _does_ know someone – his ex – when Harry interrupts him.

“I’m gonna go to the loo.”

Liam stands up to let Harry out of the booth. Harry keeps his eyes down as he scoots across the seat before standing up and disappearing towards the toilets.

“Um,” Louis says once Liam has sat back down. “Thanks Niall, yeah I’ll have his number if you don’t mind?”

“Yeah, sure,” Niall says, pulling out a pen from his bag and starting to write it on a napkin.

“But I actually know someone in Paris. I’m going there to reunite with my ex.”

Niall’s hand freezes. He looks up with his eyebrows quirked and shares a private look with Liam. Liam’s expression is confused, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Your ex?” Niall asks slowly, as if he is speaking a different language than Louis.

“Yeah,” Louis nods also confused by their reactions and feeling oddly unsettled.

“You mean…” Niall pauses, considering his next words carefully. “You mean you’re not with Harry?”

“What?” Louis laughs, but the sound is hollow. “No! No – we’re just friends.” Louis wonders if Niall and Liam can hear the panic in his voice. Their unconvinced expressions suggest they do.

Neither Niall nor Liam says anything for a moment. A chilled, nervous sweat breaks out on the back of Louis’ neck as the silence lingers.

“You fooled me,” Niall says eventually with a shrug.

“Does Harry know you’re just friends?” Liam asks, his tone suggesting he is trying to be helpful even though he is doing nothing to ease Louis’ panic.

“Of course,” Louis splutters. “He’s the one – he’s made it clear that we’re just friends.”

Liam looks unconvinced, like he’s trying to explain basic maths to a child who just doesn’t quite understand.

“Harry’s been trying to convince me to go after my ex,” Louis continues, his voice getting higher and more defensive. “He was so happy when he found out I’m going to try to get him back.”

Niall lifts his hands in the air, palms facing Louis. “Whatever you say, mate. I misinterpreted things. My bad.”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees. “It was wrong to do so. Harry kind of seems straight anyways.”

A high pitched, manic laugh punches out of Louis. Even though he and Harry have never discussed it, Louis is pretty sure Harry isn’t straight. Things would be _so_ much easier if that was the case though.

Niall is prevented from responding by Harry returning to the table. Harry smiles in greeting, but it seems forced. His lips are too tight, his cheek disappointingly void of any dimple.

“So, Niall,” Harry says, not bothering to see what the others were conversing about. “How did you get into music?”

Harry, Louis, Niall, and Liam discuss music, songwriting, and favorite bands until the open mic night begins. The emcee stands up on the stage, announcing the start of the performances. Louis is on his second pint and feels warm and fairly relaxed. As the emcee reads out the lineup, Louis realizes he is excited to perform. It’s what he loves doing most. Even though performing in front of Harry always makes him feel riddled with nerves, it’s also the most rewarding feeling.

The four of them watch the first three performers go up on stage and sing. The talent is average but not displeasing to listen to. Louis knows they are just like him – musicians looking to make it. Uncertain but determined. They each have that drive to follow the dream of playing music, writing music, and performing music for a living.

Louis wonders if any of them will achieve that dream.

“Alright,” the emcee says as the third performer leaves the stage to scattered applause. “Next up we have Harry Styles.”

Louis, Liam, and Niall break into applause and cheers as Harry smiles bashfully and walks up to the stage.

“Hello,” Harry says into the mic, twisting the stand to make it taller. His voice sounds so much deeper in the mic, practically shaking the small pub as if an earthquake is rolling through. “My name is Harry Styles, and I’m going to perform a song written by my brilliant friend, Louis Tomlinson. He’s performing after me, so yeah. Here we go.”

There is a pause before the music begins, Louis’ CD he made for Harry piping through the pub’s tiny speakers.

Harry’s eyes slip closed, his body swaying to the slow sultry, song.

“Are you really here or am I dreaming? I can’t tell dreams from truth. For it’s been so long since I have seen you, I can hardly remember your face anymore.”

Harry’s voice is soft, but mesmerizing and passionate. Louis feels himself being drawn in, inescapably captivated.

“When I feel lonely, and the distance causes only silence, I think of you smiling with pride in your eyes. A lover that sighs.”

As Harry goes into the chorus, he seems to lose himself completely. His voice is raw and emotional, his body moving tantalizingly with each wrench of his voice.

“If you want me, satisfy me. If you want me, satisfy me.”

The whole pub is entranced by Harry. There is no sound other than his voice and the music. No laughter, no ordering at the bar, no football game on the telly. Just silence as Harry sings.

“Are you really sure that you believe me when others say I lie? I wonder if you could ever despise me when you know I really tried to be a better one, to satisfy you. For you’re everything to me. And I’ll do what you ask me, if you let me be free.

“If you want me, satisfy me. If you want me, satisfy me.”

Before the final chorus, Harry uses the musical break to vocalize. Louis feels all the air leave his body as Harry’s voice travels into falsetto range, each note sung with perfect, heart-wrenching clarity. Louis feels as if he is floating, his body weightless, carried by Harry’s voice. Harry looks as lost in the music as Louis feels, like he’s drowning, but he has no desire to break the surface.

“If you want me, satisfy me. If you want me, satisfy me.”

The song draws to a close, and Louis is on his feet before the last notes have faded. His hands are a blur as he applauds, his voice like a lion’s roar as he cheers.

The entire pub agrees with Louis. They yell and cheer and applaud and whistle. The pub seems as if it will explode with the noise, as if it isn’t quite big enough to hold all the adoration that Harry Styles is so clearly due and fervently given.

Harry’s eyes blink open hazily, as if he has forgotten where he is and is surprised at what he finds. He blushes and bows, biting his lip as he smiles.

He shuffles off the stage, all the grace from his slow sway gone and his usual, clumsy gait back again.

“Alright,” the emcee says and even he sounds impressed. “Give it up for Harry Styles.” The pub does so with unquestioned enthusiasm. “Alright, next we have Louis Tomlinson.”

Hearing his name jars Louis. He had been so captivated by Harry that he forgot he was performing next.

Louis grabs his guitar and heads onto the stage. He fiddles with the mic stand, lowering it. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to top that,” Louis jokes even though he is painfully aware that no performance could match Harry’s. “And by the way, I may have written the music, but those lyrics were all Harry.”

Louis meets Harry’s eye in the crowd, and he’s shaking his head, a fond smile on his lips.

Louis strums his guitar, making sure it’s in tune. “This is a song I wrote. It’s called Gold."

Louis leans back ever so slightly from the mic and takes a deep breath. His hand rests against the strings, his pick between his fingers.

He looks out into the crowd once again, and his eyes meet Harry’s.

Immediately, Louis’ breath leaves his body. Harry watches him with the same intensity that he did the first night they met. When he saw a performance that no one was ever meant to see. Louis found the gaze unsettling then, but now he finds it comforting and familiar. Here is a man who believes in him. A man who has supported and cared for him even though he didn’t deserve it. A man who has helped him in every single way.

Here is a man whom Louis loves.

Louis’ hand moves against the strings, a warm, slow melody filling the pub like cigarette smoke. The audience, still captivated from Harry’s performance, watches Louis with equal interest. As Louis plays the musical intro, he can feel himself getting lost in the music. His eyes slip shut, his fingers and hand moving from muscle memory. Everyone’s eyes are on him, but he is alone.

“And I love him so,” Louis sings, his voice soft and gentle like a sleeping exhale. “I wouldn’t trade him for gold. I’m walking on moonbeams. I was born with a silver spoon.”

Louis gives himself to the song, just like he did that night on the Southbank when he met Harry. His music is a part of him. It is his gift to the world; the world’s gift to him. This may be his last public performance in London, but he is going to go to Paris and make it there. He will go wherever he has to go, do whatever he has to do as long as he can keep singing.

“And I’m going to be me; I’m going to be free. I’m walking on moonbeams, staring out to sea.”

His eyes open and immediately find Harry. Harry’s eyes are locked on his like a lighthouse locating a ship in the darkened sea. Louis’ eyes do not shut again. As he sings, he sings to Harry.

“If a door be closed, then a row of homes start building. And tear your curtains down, for sunlight is like gold.”

Louis will go to Paris, and he will leave Harry behind. He will reunite with his ex, and his time with Harry will become a memory. A wonderful, sweet memory that changed Louis’ life. One that he will look back on fondly. But it will just remain a memory.

But as Louis sings to Harry, their gazes locked on each other, Louis doesn’t know how he will possibly leave him. How he will possibly say goodbye to the man who has changed his life and captured his heart.

And Louis sees it in Harry’s eyes, too. Louis has denied it time and time again, but now, he sees it. He sees it as clearly on Harry’s face as if it was written across his forehead. Harry cares for Louis; he might even love him, too. Harry doesn’t want Louis to leave. He wants him to stay. Harry wants Louis to stay with him.

“And you better be you, do what you can do. When you’re walking on moonbeams staring out to sea. Cause if your skin was soil, how long before they start digging? And if your life was gold, how long do you think you’d stay living? Hey!”

The music builds and builds, and Louis is swept up in it. His eyes break from Harry’s as they close, too lost to stay open anymore. He steps back from the mic, just letting the music flow from him like a gushing waterfall. His hand aches as it churns against the strings, his foot stomping on beat. The music grows like a volcano about to burst, and Louis feels like he is right at the center of the lava, hot and destructive.

The music swells, and then it stops.

Louis looks out into the crowd and sees Harry. And there is no doubt in Louis’ mind. Going to Paris would be a mistake. He needs to stay in London. He needs to stay with Harry.

As he sings the final lines, he holds Harry’s gaze. Their eyes burn into one another so that there is no doubt in either of their minds that Louis is singing these words for Harry and Harry alone.

“And I love him so, I wouldn’t trade him for gold.”


	2. Chapter Two

_Tuesday._

Louis has just arrived outside of Harry’s flat the following morning when Harry steps outside, bag slung over his shoulder.

Harry doesn’t immediately see Louis, so Louis scrambles for the horn. It beeps twice, a high pitched yelp that sounds a bit like a duck call, but it gets Harry’s attention.

“Hey!” Harry calls, crossing the street towards him. He’s already smiling, and Louis can’t help but wonder if Harry always smiles like this or if it’s just reserved for him.

“Hey,” Louis greets, holding his helmet nervously in his hands. He leans against the motorcycle, feeling like a wannabe Greaser. Trying to impress the boy he likes by taking him on a motorcycle ride. He might as well have worn a leather jacket and called Harry “tuts.” Ridiculous.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, arriving at Louis’ side. He casts a curious glance at the motorcycle before looking at Louis with raised eyebrows.

“Want to go for a ride?” It sounds lame coming out of Louis’ mouth, but he knows in the movies it would make the desired go weak at the knees.

“It’s yours?” Harry asks, sounding skeptical, as if he is wondering if Louis is secretly a go-where-the-wind-takes-me biker. He is right to be unconvinced.

“It’s Dan’s,” Louis replies. “He absolutely loves it, but I robbed it off him for the day. He’d kill me if he knew I had it.”

“Would he?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Louis deadpans. “So, do you fancy a spin?”

Harry hesitates, his smile flickering. “I’d love to, but I have to go to work.”

“Right, cool,” Louis responds, immediately feeling ten times more ridiculous. As if he could just whisk Harry away on a romantic motorcycle ride. “Another time, yeah?” Louis asks, rambling in an attempt to cover up the awkwardness he feels. “I just thought I’d ride over and see if you were into going now.”

Harry hesitates, chewing his lip. “Could you have me back around lunch?”

Hope surges through Louis, feeling as warm and bubbly as a sip of champagne. “Yeah,” he agrees, unable to hide his excitement. “Yeah, of course.”

Louis hands Harry his spare helmet. Harry looks oddly attractive with the helmet on, his curls pressed up against his face. The helmet frames his face in a way that makes his green eyes seem brighter and his pink lips fuller.

Harry sits behind Louis, his hands on Louis’ waist and his thighs framing Louis’ own. As he starts the motorcycle, Louis fights the urge to sink back in the seat against Harry. To let their bodies mold together in the perfect fit that they are.

He wonders if Harry would mind. Louis thinks back to the night before – that _something_ in Harry’s expression as he watched Louis perform. That something that made Louis think that maybe this isn’t all in his head. That maybe Harry cares for him too.

After Louis’ performance last night, he wanted to go immediately to Harry’s side, before whatever Harry was feeling left him. But people kept stopping Louis – telling him how much they enjoyed his performance. A couple of people asked him if he had a CD out, and they promised they would look for his record at HMV when he inevitably made it big.

Usually, Louis would have loved the attention, and he was chuffed at the kind words spoken to him, but in the moment, he just wanted to get to Harry. The people between them had been like the Red Sea, but sadly without a Moses to part it.

When Louis got back to the table, Niall immediately snagged his attention and took control of the conversation. He bought Louis a pint and told him that if he had any reservations before, he was sure as hell recording with Louis now. Harry didn’t say much as Niall and Liam, both a bit tipsy, dominated the conversation. Harry eventually excused himself, saying he needed to get back home to check on Ivana. Louis hadn’t wanted him to go, but before he could ask Harry to stay – or at least to let Louis walk him home – Harry was gone.

Louis had only stayed at the pub for another hour or so before he headed home, tipsy and warm and happy, but missing Harry at his side. Craving just a moment with him. He felt like that would fix the strange restlessness inside of him.

Those thoughts were what spurred Louis to take Dan’s motorcycle for the day. To escape the city of millions of people and go somewhere where it could just be them.

The concrete jungle that is London slowly starts to turn into fields and villages the further south Harry and Louis ride. Smaller towns where people know one another, where they aren’t so crammed into this impossibly large and suffocating metropolis.

Harry and Louis only stop once on the hour and a half ride to the coast. They stop at a service station just off the M23 to use the loo and get some snacks which are then shoved into Harry’s bag.

Louis doesn’t remember the last time he saw the sea. He never came with his ex, and his family didn’t really go on many holidays when he was growing up. He’s never made it down to Brighton, but thought that maybe it would be nice to see it before he leaves the UK for who knows how long.

The sea is a murky brown color, but as they ride into the city, Louis thinks it looks beautiful. It’s a clear and sunny day, and he wishes it was about ten or fifteen degrees warmer and then they might actually be able to go swimming.

Louis drives through the city and feels a swell of disappointment. It feels as if they are still in London, just a London on the coast. They pass Regency style townhouses and immaculately kept gardens and the Brighton Pavilion where the royals of the past would holiday. This wasn’t really the retreat he had in mind.

Harry tugs on Louis’ arm as they ride along the coastline. They haven’t spoken much on the ride, but it is suddenly as if Harry has read Louis’ mind.

“Let’s get out of the city,” Harry says. “Maybe go towards the South Downs or something?”

Louis grins with relief, pleased that Harry was thinking exactly what he was. They ride west along the coastline, Harry’s hands firmly on Louis’ waist.

At a stoplight, Louis turns around briefly, desperate to have a glimpse of Harry. Harry gazes out at the sea with his loose hair blowing lightly in the wind. A content smile is on his face, and Louis knows a short get away was exactly what they needed. He fights the impulse to reach towards Harry, to touch his face with his fingertips and kiss him lightly on the mouth. To say, “I brought you here because I want you to have this. The sea and the ocean and the sky. To have every love song I could ever write. I want you to have everything.”

But then a car honks behind them as the light changes, and Louis is forced to turn away from Harry, leaving his face untouched and his mouth unkissed.

They park near Worthing Beach, the area much quieter than and not as kitschy as Brighton Pier. Instead, there are a few families out and about, enjoying their Tuesday afternoon. Even though there is a pier, no carnival rides adorn it, no tinkering music playing like the endless loop of the Ferris Wheel. Louis smiles to himself – this is exactly what he wanted for him and Harry today. The waves roll in lazily onto the pebble beach, and a crisp wind blowing reminds Louis that it’s October, even though the sunshine makes it seem like it should be June.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks, digging into his bag. He pulls out a bag of crisps.

“Yeah, cheers,” Louis says.

They sit at the edge of the water, the pebbles rough beneath their feet. The seagulls flap in the air, eyeing them suspiciously in hopes of snagging some of their food. Louis keeps his bag of crisps close to his chest, guarding it like a parent with his child.

“I’ve always wanted to live by the sea,” Harry says. Louis glances over at him, but Harry is looking out at the water. “I know I would probably grow used to it and not appreciate it, like how I don’t pay any attention to Big Ben now that I’ve lived in London for a while, but I always feel happiest when I’m by the water.”

“You do?” Louis asks.

Finally, Harry looks towards Louis. His expression is serious, his gaze fixed.

Louis holds Harry’s unflinching gaze, not shrinking from it like he did the first time they met. Has it only been this week? It feels like it’s been a lifetime.

“I do,” Harry replies.

They sit in silence for another minute or two, munching on their crisps. Louis watches as a child runs towards the water, shrieking with delight. The girl’s parent chases after her, wanting to catch the rogue child before she jumps into the freezing water. Louis smiles, remembering chasing around his younger siblings. Sometimes he felt like a dog on a lead, and he just went anywhere they led him.

“I think last night went really well,” Harry says, drawing Louis’ attention back to him.

“Yeah?” Louis replies, pleased. “I did, too. I’m really glad Niall and Liam agreed to play with us. The recording is going to sound even better with them.”

“You’re right. It would have been awful with just the two of us.”

Louis laughs, shoving lightly at Harry. “Don’t even pretend like you weren’t amazing. I think the audience could have listened to you all night.”

Harry smiles shyly, but Louis can see from the spark in Harry’s eyes that he knows he did well. “It felt good. I haven’t performed in front of people like that in a long time.”

“Why don’t you?” Louis asks. “You’re brilliant, and you can clearly entertain a crowd. And you have the most beautiful voice –” Louis cuts off, bashful.

“I haven’t really had time since adopting Ivana and moving here. I needed a job that I could depend on, something a little steadier than music.”

“I understand that. Even when you love it, sometimes you just can’t do it. Life makes it too difficult to just give up everything and pursue what you love.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

Louis rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I don’t think I’m giving up everything. I don’t have that much to begin with, other than my family, and they won’t miss me any more than they already do. I’m just taking a chance.”

“I’m glad you are. You deserve it.”

“So do you.”

“I would like to someday. But the time isn’t now.”

“Why not?”

Louis knows he’s pressing, but there is so much about Harry he doesn’t know. He loves Harry’s voice and thinks he is such an incredibly talented musician and writer. He should be taking this chance at making it with Louis. Even if not with Louis, then on his own. But Louis knows that Harry should be pursuing music just as passionately as he is.

Harry casts Louis a troubled look, and Louis wonders if he’s pushed too far. If Harry doesn’t want to talk to him about why he doesn’t pursue music more seriously. Or maybe he’s given his reasons – Ivana and steady work – and he doesn’t like Louis’ implication that that’s not enough.

Louis is about to take it back when Harry says, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Dread immediately consumes Louis, like a wave at high tide washing over him and dragging him out to sea. He doesn’t know what Harry will say, and he doesn’t know if he wants to know. But he asked.

“Yeah?” Louis says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as afraid as he feels.

Harry sighs, looking out towards the sea again. His shoulders are tense, and Louis is afraid that if he touched him, Harry would burst.

“I’m engaged.”

Whatever Louis was expecting, it wasn’t that. The wave that took him to sea is now pulling him to the ocean floor. To the unexplored depths of the ocean where there is no air and no light. To the depths where there is nothing to do but drown.

“What?” Louis splutters, unable to believe that he heard correctly.

“Does it surprise you?” Harry asks.

Louis wants to laugh. Does it surprise him? What kind of a question is that? “For fuck’s sake,” Louis mutters, feeling so overwhelmed that he almost finds it funny. Last night, he realized that he’s in love with Harry. He maybe even was going to tell him, and now Harry tells him that he’s engaged to someone else. Of course it surprises him. “Yeah,” Louis finally replies. He lets out a deep sigh, still feeling like he’s struggling for air. “Where is he?”

“Back in the Czech Republic,” Harry replies, not correcting Louis’ unconscious pronoun use. It feels as if fate is laughing at Louis – the way he finds out that Harry isn’t straight is because he’s engaged to another man.

Harry’s face is pinched, as if he’s struggling just as much as Louis is. “He – it’s over between us. It has been for a while now.” Harry doesn’t stop to see Louis’ reaction. “But I stopped doing music right after we got engaged because I wanted to get a sensible job. I wanted to be able to contribute to our future together. And he – he didn’t really support me that much with my music anyways. And after Gemma –” Harry’s voice breaks, and Louis desperately wants to reach out and touch him. “After I adopted Ivana, we kept delaying the wedding and I realized after a while that I never felt sad when we’d have to push it back again. I – I tried to break off the engagement, but he asked me to give it another year. To see how I felt then. I moved here, and I know now that I don’t want to marry him.”

“Jesus,” Louis swears. The wind blows around them, and the seagulls fly above them, but Louis only sees Harry. “I’m sorry he didn’t support your music. I can’t even imagine how hard that would be. You deserve better than that.”

Harry nods jerkily, but still doesn’t look at Louis.

“Are you alright?” Louis asks after a moment.

Harry looks at him, and Louis is surprised to see that Harry’s expression is emotional but not sorrowful. As if it was the pain of telling the story rather than the pain of thinking of his estranged fiancé that evoked these emotions within him.

“I am,” Harry says. “Thank you.” He crumbles his empty bag of crisps in his hand, the sound jarring Louis. “Do you want to walk on the pier?” Harry suggests, standing swiftly.

“Okay,” Louis agrees, stumbling after Harry.

The pier feels entirely different to how the Brighton Pier must be like. Instead of being crowded with people, cardboard cutouts for tourists to take pictures with, and amusement park rides, the Worthing Pier has a large café with tall glass windows and a couple of spots for fishing. The wind blows stronger as they walk out over the water. The views from the pier are stunning, and the day is clear enough that Louis imagines he can see the thin coastline of France. He knows that he can’t, but the vast expanse of water before him makes France –and his future – feel simultaneously close enough to touch and impossibly far away.

They stop at the end of the pier. Louis leans against the rail, the water hitting the posts beneath them.

“What’s Czech for ocean?” Louis asks.

“Oceán,” Harry replies, his Czech accent becoming thick, overpowering his English one. It sounds like ott-san when he says it. “It’s pretty much the same.”

Louis nods. “Oceán,” he repeats. He glances over at Harry who is also looking out at the water. He seems miles away, as if the ocean is already between them. “What are you going to do?” Louis asks quietly. He half hopes that the sea will swallow up his words, but he knows Harry has heard him.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies just as quietly. He shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed out towards the water, not towards Louis. “There’s such distance between me and him. I know he loves me, but I don’t think I can marry him. I’m fine on my own, you know? But I really wanted Ivana to have two parents. Two parents that love her.”

Louis looks back out at the sea, his stomach feeling as restless as the water churning beneath him. He sighs and looks back at Harry. “What’s Czech for do you love him?”

Harry looks over at him, a mix of understanding and amusement in his eyes. “Miluješ ho?”

“Miluješ ho,” Louis repeats to himself, the words feeling funny and awkward on his tongue. He looks up at Harry. “So, miluješ ho?”

Harry watches him for a moment, his expression soft. “Miluju tě.”

“What?” Louis says with confusion, leaning a bit closer to Harry. “What’d you say?” 

Harry’s gaze is heavy on Louis’, full of intent. Louis’ heart climbs to his throat – he sees the translation in Harry’s eyes, in the softness of his expression.

Then ever so gently, he leans forward, and kisses Louis’ mouth.

The kiss is the lightest touch, like a feather gently brushing past him as the wind carries it. Harry’s lips are warm and full, pressing softly against Louis’. Louis’ eyes slip shut and his lips purse to kiss back. His heart hammers and his breath is caught, unsure of how to escape. But it doesn’t want to escape – Louis doesn’t want to escape. He wants to stay here forever, with the feeling of Harry’s lips against his, kissing him sweetly. He would gladly give up breathing if it meant he could never lose the feeling of Harry kissing him.

Carefully, Harry pulls away. Louis doesn’t wish to break the kiss, his lips wanting to chase after Harry’s, to claim them once again and never let go. But instead, Louis’ eyes slip open to find Harry has already moved away, looking out at sea.

“Harry–” Louis begins, his voice hoarse but filled with emotion.

“We should get back,” Harry says. His voice is also strained, and he turns his face so that Louis can’t see his expression.

Louis doesn’t want to go back. He wants to know what Harry is thinking, why Harry has turned away from him. He wants to kiss Harry again.

The words are stuck in his throat. _Do you want me to stay?_ Louis wants to ask. _I will stay if you ask me to._

But Harry had just told Louis that he’s engaged. He’s engaged to someone else, and even though things aren’t working out between them, it doesn’t mean he cares for Louis. The kiss could have been because Harry is lonely or as a farewell before Louis leaves for Paris. Louis’ instincts rage against that – insisting they saw something in Harry’s eyes right before he kissed Louis. He saw something that looked a lot like love.

“Harry–” Louis tries again.

“Please,” Harry says, his voice quiet but insistent. Pained. “Please don’t.”

Louis nods jerkily, even though Harry can’t see him. Harry won’t ask him to stay, or maybe he can’t. And even though it hurts Louis, he understands. Harry has commitments greater than his friendship to Louis – commitments to his daughter and his family and his fiancé. Louis – who Harry has only known a handful of days – doesn’t suddenly have priority over them. Even if Harry does love Louis back.

“Okay,” Louis finally says quietly, with resignation. “Let’s go.”

They walk back along the pier in silence, side by side but it feels far apart. It doesn’t feel like moments ago their bodies were touching in an intimate embrace. That Louis had felt Harry’s lips against his, the lingering taste of salt from the crisps on his full bottom lip. Now Louis feels that even if he reached out to touch Harry, he would find nothing but air where he stands.

Louis starts towards the bike, but Harry stops behind him. Louis turns to find Harry gazing longingly towards the water.

“What is it?” Louis asks.

For the first time since their kiss, Harry meets Louis’ eyes. Louis sees firm resolve in his expression. “I want to go swimming.”

“What?” Louis laughs, his eyebrows raising. “It’s October. You’ll bloody freeze.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t care.” He leans down and begins to unlace his boots. “It’s been too long since I’ve been in the ocean.”

“It’s not even the ocean,” Louis protests. “It’s the English Channel!”

Harry ignores him, pulling off one of his boots and dropping it carelessly onto the pebbles.

“Just dip your feet in, yeah?” Louis asks, his hands buried in his pockets, feeling cold on Harry’s behalf. “You don’t have a change of clothes and you don’t want to go all the way back to London wet.”

Harry pauses, considering. “I’ll only dip my feet in if you join me.”

“Absolutely not!” Louis exclaims. “I am not going into the ocean in October!”

“I thought you said it wasn’t the ocean?”

Lost for words, Louis huffs in amused annoyance.

Harry shrugs. “Guess I’m going in, then.”

Harry starts tugging at his socks which disappear inside his jeans. Harry rolls up the cuffs and pulls at the socks, but they seem unwilling to come off.

“Your socks don’t even want you to go in!” Louis points out. “They won’t come off!”

“That’s because they’re compression socks,” Harry retorts. “They’re difficult to take off because they’re doing such a good job of keeping my circulation flowing.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Why are you even wearing compression socks? I thought only one hundred year old men wore them?”

“I’m on my feet pretty much the whole day.” Harry successfully yanks one of the socks off with a grunt. He looks at Louis with a satisfied smirk before starting on the other one. “It keeps them from hurting.”

Louis watches Harry struggle with his other sock, but eventually, it too comes off.

“Still not coming in?” Harry teases.

“Nope.”

“Alright. Guess I’m going swimming then.”

He drops his bag by his discarded boots and starts to take off his jacket.

“Fine!” Louis bursts, not wanting Harry to take off any more of his clothing. He reaches down for his boots, tugging them off unceremoniously and ignoring Harry’s smug smile. A high pitched yelp punches out of Louis as he puts his bare foot down on the cold, salt-slick pebbles. Harry laughs, and Louis flips him the bird as he rolls up the cuffs of his jeans.

He stands up straight, shooting Harry a most unimpressed look. Harry grins at him toothily, looking as delighted as if Louis just bought him a piano.

“Come on,” Harry says, gesturing towards Louis. Harry starts walking towards the water, and with a fixed frown on his face, Louis follows.

Harry walks straight out into the sea, not even flinching as the icy looking water swallows up his feet. His jeans are rolled up as far as they can go, but Harry does not stop as he walks further out into the water, his arms at his side but his palms spread. He looks like Jesus waiting to be beamed up to heaven.

The moment the water touches Louis’ foot, he screams. Harry may be ready to ascend into the clouds, but Louis has been plunged straight down to hell. If hell was a frozen hole where he is forced to stand in icy water that laps against his skin as gently as a knife plunging into his skin. Harry laughs at Louis’ reaction, turning around to watch him with amusement.

“I hate you, Harry Styles!” Louis shrieks, hopping from one foot to another, hoping that will alleviate the cold.

“It feels good!” Harry insists. “Refreshing.”

“How is losing all feeling in your body refreshing? Jesus Christ!”

Harry just laughs, his body rocking gently with the rolling waves.

“Just relax, Lou. Enjoy it.”

“Right, because telling someone to relax always works,” Louis mutters sourly. “Thank you so much. You’ve cured it. I’m suddenly as calm and as warm as a rainbow.”

“Are rainbows calm and warm?” Harry wonders.

A wave crashes over Louis’ shins, and he shrieks again. The stones are harsh against his feet, slamming into him as they roll in with the tide. His legs are going to be bruised and his feet are going to fall off from frostbite. He can already feel his right foot going numb. He wonders if it will just detach itself and float away. And yet, he doesn’t get out of the water. He stays in the freezing, wintery sea because Harry asked him to. Harry didn’t ask him to stay, but he asked this of him. And Louis will give Harry whatever he asks – even if he loses a limb in the process.

Harry wades back towards Louis, his jeans damp all the way up to his knees. He reaches out and places a hand gently on Louis’ arm, and Louis immediately stops thrashing about. He looks up and meets Harry’s eyes.

“Just breathe,” Harry says. “And stand still. Your body will start to get used to it in a moment.”

Louis wants to scowl at Harry, but there is such earnestness in his expression that Louis can’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he stands still and Harry turns so that they are side by side, looking out towards the sea.

Harry breathes in deeply, and Louis watches as his eyes slip shut. His shoulders relax as he exhales, his lips forming a perfectly round circle as they blow out the air.

Louis doesn’t think he could become quite as meditative as Harry, but he still squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on something other than the freezing water surrounding him and making his blood turn to ice.

Louis feels the sea move around him. He feels the pebbles rush around his feet, inhales the fresh smell of salt and sea. He slowly begins to relax, feeling himself find peace in the flow of the water around him, the warmth of Harry standing so close to him.

They wade to shore after only a couple more minutes in the water. As the bitter wind nips at Louis’ exposed feet, the numbness he felt in the water leaves him and he is suddenly overwhelmed with feeling again. He races quickly back to his belongings, eager to warm his feet in his shoes and socks.

“Wait,” Harry says before Louis can shove the socks onto his damp feet. Harry digs through his bag and pulls out a flannel, holding it out to Louis.

“Why do you have this?” Louis asks, gratefully accepting it and drying his feet.

“I have a toddler,” Harry shrugs. “I always have one on me to clean up untimely messes. That one is clean though, don’t worry.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, handing it back to Harry and struggling a lot less to put his socks on his wet feet.

Returning to London feels like coming back to a nine to five job after having a three day weekend. It had to happen eventually, but wouldn’t it have been nice to just stay on holiday indefinitely? The concrete buildings that frame the outskirts of London contrast sharply to the southern coastline with its quaint towns and sprawling green hills that make up the South Downs.

Louis drives Harry to Chelsea, dropping him off at the house where Harry works. Just as Louis promised, they’re back just after lunch, plenty of time for Harry to do his work. As Harry climbs off the motorcycle, Louis sees that Harry’s lips are red and chapped from the wind and that his jeans are still damp.

“Thank you for the ride,” Harry says, handing Louis back his helmet. “I’ll see you tonight for rehearsals, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, accepting the helmet. “See you.”

“See you,” Harry calls, walking swiftly towards the house.

Louis beeps the horn twice as he rides off in a friendly goodbye. He doesn’t look back as he rides away, so he doesn’t see Harry watching him go with a fond smile on his face.

 

Harry, Niall, and Liam come over that evening after dinner. Liam arrives with his guitar, Niall with his drum set, and Harry with a loaf of banana bread that his mum made. Louis has an old keyboard in his closet that he promised to let Harry use during their rehearsals. They set up in Louis’ room as Harry hands out slices of banana bread.

Louis gives them each a copy of the songs they will be recording. They look over the music individually, the room bursting with musical chaos for about a half hour before Louis calls an end to it so that they can practice as one.

Louis sits on the bed with Liam by his side. Harry is at the foot of the bed with the keyboard balanced on Louis’ desk, and Niall is close to Liam, sitting proudly behind his drum set. The three of them look expectantly at Louis, waiting for his signal. The feeling is intoxicating, empowering. He is the leader of this little rag tag band, and however the recording turns out, he knows it won’t be half as good without their help.

“Two, three, four,” Louis counts off.

Louis has always performed solo. Performing on the Southbank, it was just him and his guitar. He had no one to lean on or to carry him if he wasn’t feeling his best that day. He had no one to hide behind, but also no one to lift him up. No one to challenge him to be the best possible musician he could be. No one to share in the excitement when tourists stopped to listen, to dance, to throw a couple coins in his guitar case.

As Louis sings with Harry, Niall, and Liam, he feels that challenge that he has never felt before. To be a part of something greater – not just a solo act, but a band.

“Trying to pull myself away,” Louis sings, his voice raw and loud, trying to be heard over the four instruments in the room. The instruments complement his voice though, making it sound richer and fuller than it probably is, purely because of the support they give him. Niall’s beat drives them, and Liam’s guitar sings a beautiful duet with Louis’, making the usually singular guitar sound so much more powerful. Harry’s keyboard adds a softer touch, balancing the other three perfectly. No instrument overpowers the other, and together they sound as if they have been performing together for years.

A smile spreads across Louis’ face as he sings, “I’m caught in a pattern, and I can’t escape.”

He looks towards Harry who is focused intensely on the music before him. Harry’s lips are pursed in a focused pout, his eyebrows knitted together. Louis can’t help but think about earlier today, how it felt to have those full lips kissing his. He could almost believe it wasn’t real, except he can still feel the ghost of pressure against his lips, the sweet saltiness of Harry’s mouth.

Louis will take that kiss with him to Paris. That kiss, that moment where Harry showed Louis that he cared for him, too.

The door cracks open as they keep playing, and Dan comes into the room. Dan holds a tray with a pot of tea and cups and a plate of biscuits, and he moves quietly across the room so as not to interrupt their playing.

“Thanks, Dan,” Louis says in a break in the song as Dan places the tray at the foot of the bed.

As Dan leaves the room without a word, Louis meets Harry’s eye. Louis keeps singing, but he can’t help but grin at Harry. An equally pleased smile spreads across Harry’s face, and Louis knows Harry is thinking the same thing. This is going to work. This is really going to work.

 

_Wednesday._

“Alright, everyone,” the studio engineer says, sitting in a black leather chair in front of the mixing table. “I’ll be here with you today.”

Louis, Harry, Niall, and Liam stand in the studio together, and Louis almost feels as if he shouldn’t be here. As if he just wandered in off the street and is waiting for someone to ask him to leave.

“The kit’s set up,” the studio engineer continues. He points towards the glass. “The piano is set up in the live room. Tea and coffee are in the kitchen as you came in. Help yourselves. Trust me – you’ll need it. Also, there’s a little burrito place around the corner if you need a snack. Good?”

“Yeah, all good,” Louis says. He sets his guitar case against some cabinets behind the desk. He notices Niall and Liam standing awkwardly to the side, also clearly unsure of what they’re doing. Harry, on the other hand, stands by the window looking into the live rooms. He reminds Louis of shoppers looking eagerly at the window displays at John Lewis or Selfridges on Oxford Street at Christmas.

“We’ve a few bits and pieces to set up,” the studio engineer continues, gesturing again towards the live room. “I want to check the drums inside.”

“No need,” Niall replies helpfully. “We’ve already set up the kit.”

“Yeah, but I need to check them for sound.”

Niall shakes his head. “No, I’ve already checked them. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” the studio engineer answers slowly. “We need to set up mics on them for recording, yeah?”

“Oh,” Niall replies simply, finally understanding.

“Have you done much recording?” the studio engineer asks skeptically.

“No,” the four reply simultaneously, shaking their heads.

The engineer sighs, and Louis can see the pained resignation in his eyes. “Alright, let’s get cracking.”

“Okay,” Louis says, grabbing his guitar and following the studio engineer into the live room. Harry, Liam, and Niall follow closely behind.

Louis feels slightly less out of his depth once his guitar is in his hands. The headphones are large on his head, but he can’t help but feel like a professional musician with them on. The piano is set up right next to Louis, and he feels even more confident with Harry at his side.

The live room is filled with disjointed sound as they tune up and practice. Louis warms up his fingers, getting them loose and agile as he strums.

He glances over at Harry as Louis warms up his voice. The headphones fit Harry’s larger head perfectly. They don’t seem to dwarf him, and he looks like a seasoned professional with them on. It reminds him of how Harry looked with the helmet the day previously. Like the helmet, the headphones frame his face is such a way that all his best features are highlighted. He looks as handsome as always.

Louis reluctantly turns his attention back to the music, knowing all his focus needs to be on what he is about to do.

“Alright,” Louis says to his volunteer bandmates, quieting the unsynchronized music. “Are you all good?”

Harry, Niall, and Liam nod, looking as nervous and excited as Louis feels.

“Okay,” Louis turns towards the window to signal to the studio engineer that they’re ready. Instead, the studio engineer is on his mobile, leaning back in his chair and not really paying attention to them.

Louis holds onto his guitar, looking over at Harry for assurance. Harry smiles back at him, and Louis feels a bit of his nerves ease. He is not alone in this.

“Alright, everyone,” the studio engineer says through the speaker, finished with his phone call. “Whenever you’re ready. This’ll be track one, take one.”

“Alright, let’s do it, yeah?” Louis says with faux-bravado. He makes eye contact with each of his bandmates to make sure they’re also ready. They each give him a nod.

With a deep breath, Louis plays.

The guitars start soft, yet with the promise to build to an up-tempo crescendo. Harry’s piano also complements Louis’ and Liam’s playing. The music shyly fills the room, as if it is unsure whether or not it’s welcome, but it wants to make a home within these walls nevertheless.

“So,” Louis sings, his voice as soft and shy as the music. “If you want something and you call, call, then I'll come running to fight, and I'll be at your door when there's something worth running for.”

The drums join in as the song slowly builds, Louis’ voice growing more confident as he sings. The piano starts to drive the song with quick sixteenth notes as they enter the chorus.

“When your mind's made up. When your mind's made up. There’s no point in trying to change it. When your mind's made up. When your mind's made up. There’s no point trying to stop it.”

Louis’ eyes slip shut, and he suddenly feels as if he is back on the Southbank that night he met Harry. He feels the same freedom that he felt as he sang for himself and only himself. When he just let himself feel the pain he’d been fighting for months. And how releasing that pain brought him something beautiful. It brought him Harry.

He is not in an unfamiliar recording studio that makes him feel out of his depth. He is on the Southbank in his usual spot, and he is with Harry.

“You see, you're just like everyone. When the shit falls all you want to do is run away and hide all by yourself. When you're far from me, there's nothing else.”

The song has taken full residence in the studio for Louis and his band.

“When your mind's made up. When your mind's made up. There's no point trying to change it.”

The song builds and builds, like a stream rushing towards the edge of a cliff. It gathers speed and power as it grows.

“When your mind's made up. When your mind's made up. There's no point even talking. When your mind's made up. When your mind's made up. There's no point trying to fight it.”

The stream bursts over the edge of the cliff, explosive and loud and absolutely magnificent. Like the water tumbling carelessly, triumphantly, over the edge, so does the song finally reach its glorious peak.

Louis vocalizes like an agonized cry has been torn from his body. His ohs grow and grow, his hand merciless against the guitar strings. Harry matches each tone in perfect harmony, making the explosion of emotion feel like a powerful and unstoppable force.

Liam and Niall also sing harmonies, their four voices blending as if they were one.

“There’s no point trying to change it,” they sing in unison before falling back into their harmonious vocalizations. “There’s no point trying to change it.” The instruments build, almost as if they are trying to overpower one another while still remaining in balance.

Just as the music reaches its crescendo, it cuts out. The drums and guitars fall away, and just the piano remains. Harry plays, and Louis sings. Just the two of them. As it should be.

Louis looks at Harry, his gaze heavy with emotion, as he sings his final lines.

“So, if you want something, and you call, call, and I’ll come running.”

Louis holds the note for a moment, his hand in the air as a sign for silence as the final note fades.

After a couple of beats, Louis drops his hand. He breathes a sigh of relief, and he can’t help but bite back the smile that forms on his lips. Liam and Niall let out pleased laughter, which only makes Louis’ smile grow. But when he meets Harry’s eyes and sees him already looking back at him with pride and fondness, Louis feels as if he could burst with happiness.

“Alright,” the studio engineer says. Louis looks through the window to find the studio engineer’s bored, jaded expression gone. Instead, he looks impressed. “Wow. That was nice. Did you write that?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, his heart still hammering in his chest from the adrenaline of a good performance.

The studio engineer nods. “Should we do another one?”

 

The afternoon melts into evening as they record. They run each song three or four times as a group and then do individual recording.

“Should we order pizza?” Louis asks once they’ve finished recording the second song. They’ve been at it nonstop and Louis doesn’t even know what time it is. The way his stomach growls though tells him he needs to eat something.

The others agree, also ready for a break and some food. Louis orders five large pizzas, and they listen to the playback as they wait for it to arrive, discussing changes that need to be made.

When the pizza arrives, the studio engineer brings them each a Coke from the staff refrigerator and tells them about the video game console in the lounge. Drowning in pizza and soft drinks and video games, they take a well-deserved break.

Harry disappears for a moment, but returns with Anne and Ivana in tow.

“Ivana!” Louis exclaims. She smiles bashfully at him, but laughs excitedly when he scoops her up in his arms and tickles her belly.

“She wanted to come see her dad,” Anne says fondly, stroking Ivana’s hair. “How are you, Louis?” She kisses his cheek in greeting.

“Good, yeah. It was nice of you to stop by.”

“How’s it going?” she asks. “I remember my first time recording. I didn’t have the slightest clue what I was doing.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way.” Louis hoists Ivana higher on his hip as she plays with his hair. “But I’m getting the hang of it, slowly but surely.”

“You’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Anne says confidently. “Harry’s played your music for me. You have a real talent.”

“Wow, thank you so much,” Louis says truly touched. He knows from Harry how talented and dedicated a musician Anne is. For her to compliment Louis’ music makes him swell with pride like a parent at a child’s first piano recital.

“Hey,” Harry says, coming up to Louis’ side. “Ivana, would you want to hear Louis play one of his songs for you?”

“Yeah!” Ivana exclaims, clapping her hands together.

“Do you mind?” Harry asks with a sly smile.

“Not like I have a choice now,” Louis teases, setting Ivana on the ground. She toddles over to where Louis left his guitar.

Louis plays a couple of songs for Ivana, and she dances around the room and makes up her own incomprehensible words as she sings. The room is filled with laughter and good spirits as their break soon draws to a close and they have to get back to work. Anne takes a quickly-becoming-fussy Ivana home, giving both Harry and Louis kisses on the cheek before she goes.

They play and sing and record through the night. Louis has no idea how time is even progressing. The singular window in the studio has shown nothing but nighttime for what feels like days. But at the same time, the hours seem to pass in the blink of the eye as Louis spends them doing what he loves and what he always dreamed of doing. Recording. Playing his music into microphones that carry it to equipment that will record it and put them on CDs for anyone to listen to.

They stop after a couple of more songs are recorded, listening to them back through the studio speakers. Louis rests on the couch behind the desk, his body heavy with exhaustion but his brain still buzzing with energy. His legs hang over the armrest, his body sunken deep into the couch. Niall and Liam slouch against the cushions as well, their bodies just a mixture of splayed limbs. Harry sits squished between Louis and Niall, and Louis’ head keeps lolling back to rest on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s body is also so deeply relaxed that Louis isn’t even sure Harry notices.

“Okay,” the studio engineer says as the song draws to a close. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s fucking weird,” Louis says truthfully. Hearing his voice and his songs played on these professional studio speakers feels surreal, feels a bit impossible.

Everyone laughs, and Louis knows they feel the same. Their rag tag, temporary band made a CD. Louis never would have dreamed it.

“There’s a couple little tech bits,” the studio engineer says. “We can fix them, but you know, it’s four o’clock in the morning, so it’s up to you all. Do you want to push through or go for another one?”

“I’d love to keep going,” Louis replies, “if everybody’s up for it. Just want a cup of tea or something first.”

“Yeah, a cup of tea would be great,” Niall echoes.

“You want to take ten or fifteen, yeah?” the studio engineer asks.

“Sure.”

“I’ll tweak what I can. You all take ten.” He turns back to the mixing table, rolling up his sleeves.

Louis stands stiffly up, his body unwilling to leave the soft comfort of the couch. But he knows he needs some tea if he’s going to make this final push.

He turns to say something to Harry, but he notices that Harry has already left the room. Maybe he needs caffeine even more desperately than Louis does. _He should be used to an irregular sleep schedule though_ , Louis thinks sleepily, _since he has a toddler and all._

Louis steps out into the hall to go to the kitchen, but stops when he hears the sound of a lush melody coming from a piano in another room. He follows the sound to a dark room, nothing but a lamp lit over a piano. The light shines down on Harry who’s playing softly.

Harry looks up at Louis enters the room, his gaze immediately locking in on him even though he keeps playing.

“How’s it going?” Louis asks as he sits down on a stool next to the piano bench.

“Good,” Harry replies, stopping his playing. He leans towards Louis and whispers in a conspiratorial voice, “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here though.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Louis shrugs. “This is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah it’s a beautiful piano. A perfect piano.” Harry strokes the top gently, like he was petting a sleeping cat.

“Play one of your songs,” Louis requests quietly but hopefully.

“No, no.” Harry shakes his head.

“Oh, go on.”

“No, they’re all half-written and more ideas than songs.”

“Go on. I’d love to hear one.”

Harry hesitates, looking away shyly. “Okay, I have one. But it’s not finished and I – I don’t really –”

Louis laughs quietly, all too familiar with the awkwardness and vulnerability that comes with playing a song for someone for the first time. “Just play it,” he says reassuringly. “I know.”

“Okay, but the lyrics are very rough, okay?”

Louis doesn’t believe that for a moment. “It’ll be great.”

“Okay.”

Harry turns back to the piano, pushing his hair off his face. Louis fights the urge to scoot closer to Harry, not wanting to miss a note or a word.

The song starts with a slow and melancholy melody. It feels lonely and isolating, and Louis instantly feels regretful that he pressured Harry to play one of his songs. The melody feels too personal, too raw, like Louis’ performance that night he met Harry. Then, Louis had thought he was alone. He was just performing for himself. But Harry is not alone, and he knows it. He is playing this vulnerable song for Louis, knowing full well that he is baring his soul for Louis and Louis alone.

Harry can’t see him, but Louis doesn’t think he could look away from Harry if he tried.

“Walking up the hill tonight, when you have closed your eyes,” Harry sings softly, shyly. It’s as if he doesn’t want to give himself to the emotion the song inevitably evokes. As if he is fighting it for his own safety and protection. The song itself bares his soul; Harry doesn’t have to give himself over to it, too.

“I wish I didn’t have to make all those mistakes and be wise. But please try to be patient, and know that I’m still learning. I’m sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning.”

Harry’s eyes stay fixed on the keys, his hands moving slowly as he plays the repetitive chords. Emotions war across his face, and his throat bobs as he seems to swallow them down. Louis wishes he could reach out and touch Harry, to put his hand on him and comfort him.

“And where are you my angel, now? Don’t you see me crying?” Harry sings, his voice growing in power and pain. “I know you can’t do it all, but you can’t say I’m not trying.”

Louis understands why Harry’s gaze had been so intensely fixated on him the night they met. Seeing someone share such a vulnerable part of themselves – it’s difficult to look away. To see that and just turn his back on it would feel like a crime committed against Harry’s true self.

“And I’m letting myself down by satisfying you,” Harry’s voice breaks as he sings, the words coming from him more reluctantly. He sounds on the verge of tears, his voice too thick with emotion to carry on. “I really wish you could see, I –”

Harry stops abruptly, the music jarring like a train derailed from its tracks. With a sob, Harry buries his face in his hands, hunching over the piano as he shakes with emotion.

The distance between them is gone in an instant as Louis reaches out for him, wrapping his arm around Harry’s back and rubbing it gently. Louis’ heart shatters in his chest as Harry cries quietly. He had pushed Harry to play for him, and now he wants to take it all back. To hold him close and promise to always keep him safe. To make sure he is always happy and cared for like he deserves. Harry wipes at his eyes, no other sounds coming from him.

Slowly, Harry sits up, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. He turns slowly towards Louis, sitting back on the bench.

“You okay?” Louis asks, his hand still gentle on Harry’s back.

Harry sighs wetly and nods.

“Did you write that for your fiancé?” Louis asks.

Harry laughs softly. “Yeah, I did. He didn’t like it.”

Louis laughs too, shaking his head at the unfathomable rejection of Harry’s song. Harry’s fiancé must be a different breed of man – the kind that would reject a beautiful and heart-wrenching song from the most incredible and wonderful man Louis has ever met. Thankfully, Louis is of an entirely different breed.

“What an idiot.”

“Yeah, he’s an idiot,” Harry agrees. He wipes at his eyes again and then carefully leans forward, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder. Louis wastes no time in wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him close. Harry’s warmth bleeds into him, and Louis wishes to hold him close like this forever. To always feel Harry’s heat against him, to always be able to feel the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he breathes.

Louis squeezes Harry’s arm tightly, wanting to hold onto him forever. His eyes slip shut as he holds Harry close to him. Harry’s curls tickle Louis’ cheek, and Louis wishes he could bury his nose in them, to cradle Harry’s head in his hands.

Eventually, Harry leans back, seeming just as reluctant as Louis to go. He doesn’t move very far away from Louis, their bodies still angled close to one another.

“Come away to Paris with me,” Louis says, his voice pleading yet full of hope. Harry meets his eyes, and Louis can see that Harry wishes the same. “Come on, we can write loads of songs together and live in a nice flat. You can bring Ivana over too. It’ll be brilliant. Come on.”

Harry smiles sadly, scooting closer to Louis. “Yeah, we’ll go to Paris, and no one will ever find us again.”

“No one,” Louis says, shaking his head.

“No one.”

“We’ll have a brilliant band,” Louis continues, the idea building in his mind. He can imagine them in Paris together so easily. It doesn’t make any sense to leave Harry behind. Not when he loves Harry, and he can feel and see how clearly Harry loves him back. “We’ll sell out loads of places, and it’ll be great.”

“And we’ll make an album together,” Harry says, smiling.

Hope builds in Louis’ chest like a balloon so full of helium it’s about ready to burst. “Brilliant. I’d love that.”

“Yeah,” Harry continues, also getting excited. “And I’ll do backing vocals on it.”

“Yeah, and play the piano.”

“Mhm.”

They laugh together quietly for a moment, and Harry looks away. Louis reaches for Harry’s hand which rests on his knee. Louis squeezes it lightly.

“Come on, I’m serious. Come with me.”

Harry looks up reluctantly at Louis, and Louis can see in his eyes that it won’t happen. It is just the dream of a moment. The impossible, impractical dream of running off so that they can be together. But no matter how much they both want it, it isn’t possible. Louis is meant to go to Paris and to find his ex. Harry is meant to stay in London and care for Ivana and to work things out with his fiancé. That is what life has given them, even if it isn’t want they want, what they crave. Their dream will have to remain a dream.

“We should go back to work,” Harry says quietly, looking at Louis.

Louis wants to slam down his fists on top of the piano and demand that they won’t go back to work until they figure out a way to be together. To throw a fit and yell at the universe for dealing them this cruel hand. For giving him Harry just once, and not forever.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees quietly, instead.

“Okay.”

Together, they get up from the piano and leave the room. Louis follows behind Harry, and wishes that they could instead walk side by side, with their hands twined together.

 

_Thursday._

The music fades out on the speakers, the sound of Louis’ guitar and Harry’s piano drawing to a peaceful close. Louis’ head rests on his arms as he leans against the mixing table, and the others are spread out across the room in various states of sleepiness.

The studio engineer switches off the track and heaves a sigh. Louis struggles to sit up, rubbing at his eyes.

“What day is it?” Louis asks.

Harry chuckles, also sitting up from his slouched position in his chair.

“Thursday,” the studio engineer answers. “I think it’s time we did the, uh, the car test.”

“What’s the car test?” Harry asks.

“Well,” he replies, “we’ve been listening back on these big studio speakers. So I think it’s time we had a go on some shitty speakers.”

Louis nods in agreement and stands up to stretch. His bones feel one thousand years old, creaking noisily as they protest the movement.

“Alright, let’s go.”

“Let’s go for a spin and have a listen in me car.”

“Great, man,” Louis says. “Let’s go have a ride.”

“Let’s go,” Harry agrees, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

They pile into the studio engineer’s car a couple streets away. Louis sits in the front with the studio engineer, and Harry, Liam, and Niall squeeze in the backseat.

Morning traffic headed into central London is only just beginning to clog the streets, but fortunately they drive against the heavy current as they head south.

The studio engineer puts in the CD, and suddenly Louis’ music fills the car. But it doesn’t sound like his music. Louis is so accustomed to hearing his songs on tinny, low quality recordings that he can’t believe it’s actually his music playing through the speakers. It sounds like it should be one of Louis’ favorite bands, not Louis himself.

He marvels at the crisp quality of the music and can’t help but smile. Louis turns in his seat to catch Harry’s eye, and he sees a look of equal amazement and pride on Harry’s face. Out of everyone in the car, Harry is the only one who truly understands how important this is to him. That hearing this professional recording of his music means everything to him.

However, Louis’ chest still aches from Harry’s rejection. It is an open wound that feels like it only deepens each time Louis looks at Harry. Louis feels as if his body could cave in on itself, hollow and aching and deprived of being with the man he loves.

But even though his heart is broken, Louis knows this is an incredible moment. He achieved a lifelong dream of recording his very own album. He’s listening to that very album through the speakers of a car as he drives along the road. Louis wants to roll down the windows, turn the music all the way up, and scream to all of London, “This is my music! I am here! This is mine! Hear this amazing thing I have done!”

Louis’ eyes fill with tears, his nose swelling. It’s partly because of his heartbreak, and partly because of the overwhelming pride he feels. The emotions battle within him for precedence, but Louis instead chooses to feel them both fully.

The CD comes to an end as they near Dulwich Park, so the studio engineer parks the car and they get out to stretch their legs.

The moment Louis is out of the car, Harry collides with him, wrapping his arms around Louis’ neck. Louis lets out a noise of surprise, but automatically wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, pulling him close.

“It sounds amazing,” Harry murmurs. “Just like I knew it would. Absolutely amazing.”

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Louis replies, voice thick with emotion. He doesn’t want to let Harry go. “None of this would have happened without you.”

Harry pulls back far enough that Louis can see the joy in his expression. “Don’t be daft. This is all you. All of it.”

Louis knows that isn’t true, but he doesn’t want to argue. Harry gave him the push he so desperately needed. Without it, Louis would still be on the Southbank playing for uninterested crowds in the hopes that they would throw a couple of pence his way.

“Thank you,” Louis says instead. It’s not enough; it barely scratches the surface of what Louis wants to say. But it’ll have to do for now.

The studio engineer finds a Frisbee in the back of the car for them to throw around. Harry and Louis break apart to play, but they don’t seem to be able to separate very far from one another. Like a string connecting them, they follow one another, moving together. They don’t spread out as far as Liam, Niall, and the studio engineer, because it feels impossible. Instead, when the Frisbee lands between them, they race to see who can snag it first. They run at full speed under the pretense of grabbing the Frisbee, but in reality, Louis knows they just want to be close to one another. They play fight over the Frisbee, Harry jumping on Louis’ back at one point in an attempt to snatch it from his victorious hands.

Harry and Louis both know that time is running out, and neither is quite ready to let go.

Exhaustion crashes down over Louis quickly. After being awake for twenty-four hours with the adrenaline and excitement of recording his first album stimulating him the entire time, he knows it’s time for rest.

Louis falls asleep on the short ride back to the studio, unable to stay awake any longer. His head lolls against the window, too heavy to stay upright.

When they arrive back at the studio, they sleepily gather their instruments and clean up their messes as the studio engineer makes a couple of copies of the CD.

Louis embraces Niall and Liam, thanking them vehemently for their help.

“I had a great time,” Niall says, thumping Louis heartily on the back. “It’s a fantastic record, mate.”

“Cheers.”

“I’m just relieved I can finally play Thin Lizzy again,” Liam teases, which earns him a playful slap on the arm.

They wave goodbye, and Harry waits with him as the studio engineer finishes up their copies.

“There you go,” the studio engineer says, handing Louis the stack.

“Listen, man,” Louis says, shaking his hand. “They sound fucking brilliant. Thanks for your help.”

“I just pressed the buttons,” he shrugs, grinning.

“I really appreciate it though.”

“Lots of luck with those.” He points towards the CDs. “It was great.”

The studio engineer shakes Harry’s hand too.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

“You two go and get so sleep,” he says, waving.

“Thank you very, very much,” Louis says as he and Harry walk in the opposite direction.

“So this is it,” Louis says with amazement as he holds the CDs in his hands. Harry walks by his side, a smile on his face. He doesn’t seem at all tired. Louis wonders how that could be.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.

“We did it.”

“It sounds great. Could I have one?”

“Yeah, totally.” Louis doesn’t think he could refuse Harry anything – least of all the CD that wouldn’t have been made without him. Louis hands Harry one of the CDs and Harry stops.

“I’ve gotta go this way,” Harry says, sounding regretful. He gestures to the crossing and the road that will take him back home.

Panic fills Louis’ chest. He’s not ready to say goodbye to Harry yet. A few more hours more, please. “Really?” Louis asks. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Harry answers on a laugh, as if it’s obvious. Louis supposes it is.

“You don’t want to come over?” Louis offers. “I can make you breakfast and we can listen to the CD, no?”

Harry looks as if he wants to accept, but instead he shakes his head. “No, I have to go home and see Ivana and organize things. But so do you. You’re leaving.”

“Yeah,” Louis replies, feeling nauseous as he thinks about how he leaves for Paris tomorrow.

 _Ask me to stay_ , Louis thinks. _I will stay if you ask me to._

But Harry doesn’t say anything, and Louis knows the moment has already passed.

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly instead. “To Paris. What do you have to organize? What’s that about?”

“I,” Harry hesitates, looking away. “I spoke to my fiancé last night. He’s coming to London.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Louis says, hoping Harry doesn’t hear the strain in his voice. The way his heart is splintering in his chest for the hundredth time before ten o’clock in the morning. “That’s great. I’m really happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, but he also doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s good. After you and I talked last night, I realized that I can’t just keep pretending. I need to give it another try.”

After they talked, which actually means, after Louis asked Harry to go to Paris with him.

“We’ll try to make it work,” Harry continues. “It’s for the best.”

Louis wants to ask whose best, but he doesn’t. “Come over and have a cup of tea,” Louis tries again. “It’s my last day. We can hang out and have breakfast and whatever. We can listen to the tunes. Or you can come over later, whatever.”

Harry looks at him, his eyebrows raised. “For what?”

“What do you mean for what?” Louis replies. “You’d just come over and hang out.”

Harry’s eyes glint with mischief and he takes a step closer to Louis, his hip cocked flirtatiously. “But we’ve done our work. Why would I come over? We’d just hanky panky if I come now.”

A loud, surprised laugh punches out of Louis’ chest. He feels his whole face crinkle with fondness as Harry looks at him with amusement.

“What?” Harry demands, as if he hasn’t just said anything unusual.

“Hanky panky?” Louis asks through his laughter.

Harry shrugs, grinning devilishly.

Louis shakes his head. “It won’t be for hanky panky.”

“I know it would,” Harry says, and even though he’s still smiling, the certainty in his tone is evident. Harry meets Louis’ eyes and his dimple pops as he shrugs. “And that would be nice.”

The nausea in Louis’ stomach is replaced with butterflies from those simple words, and he feels warm and desired and young. “Would it?” he asks shyly.

Harry laughs and looks away. “Very interesting. But it would be worthless though.”

Worthless. Being with Louis for a night would be worthless. But for Louis, a night with Harry would be worth more than anything in the world. For a lifetime with Harry, Louis would gladly give everything in this world and all the surrounding words and galaxies with their suns and planets and stars. Everything for a lifetime with him.

“Come by later,” Louis says quietly, a plea.

“Mm,” Harry considers. He looks around them as if he’s expecting someone to intercede, but no one does. Louis can see the conflict on Harry’s face, his emotions and what he wants and what he knows is sensible warring within him.

“Okay,” Harry says eventually. “I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

Harry nods. “I’ll come later, yeah.”

Louis grins. “Brilliant. You sure?”

Harry nods again, his lips pressed together.

“Brilliant,” Louis says again. “Alright then.” He leans forward and kisses Harry’s cheek, a thank you and a promise and a parting gift. The gesture is simple and fleeting, but Louis feels Harry’s cheeks swell with a smile underneath his lips. “Cool,” Louis says as he pulls away. “See you later. Well done.”

“You, too,” Harry replies.

Louis reluctantly walks away, but he can’t help but peer over his shoulder at Harry. He finds Harry watching him back, his body also twisted around to watch Louis. Louis waves and gives a thumbs up. Harry laughs and waves back before turning around again. Louis watches him go, unwilling to lose a moment between them. Even when Harry turns the corner, he waits for just a moment, just in case Harry comes back.

But he doesn’t, so Louis starts walking again, ready to catch his bus and go home.

 

Harry doesn’t come by that night.

Louis falls asleep the moment he gets home, but tells Dan that if Harry comes over to wake him up. Dan never wakes him up, and when Louis comes awake himself later that afternoon, Dan confirms that Harry didn’t come by.

Louis doesn’t leave the flat the whole night, just in case. Even when the sun sets and the streets grow dark, he finds himself constantly checking his watch and looking out the window.

Maybe Harry is waiting until after Ivana goes to bed. It would make sense for him to spend some time with his daughter before coming to see Louis. Louis watches as the clock reads eight thirty, nine, nine thirty, but there is no sign of Harry.

Louis steps outside the shop, standing on the pavement as he watches cars go by. A couple of people pass him on the street, but none of them are Harry.

Louis wanted to spend this time with Harry – hanky panky or not. He wanted to just be in Harry’s company, to soak in the pleasure of his voice and his laugh and his fixated stare that Louis no longer finds unsettling but instead basks in.

Louis wanted that, and Harry agreed to come over, but Harry must have changed his mind. He decided that even though it’s Louis’ last night in London, they won’t spend it together.

Louis looks down the road hopefully one last time, but sees no one coming.

Louis sighs and goes back inside. He has a lot of packing to do.

 

_Friday._

Louis and Dan sit at opposite ends of the kitchen table, a tea kettle and a CD player between them. Louis’ record plays on the CD player, and they listen in silence. Dan stares fixedly into the distance, while Louis alternates between watching him for any reaction and staring at the floor.

The music fades out, and Louis stops the CD. The silence between them is even louder without the music to fill the room.

“Well,” Louis begins tentatively. He feels like a child showing his parent an art project he made at school and hoping that they’ll like it. “What do you think?” Dan doesn’t answer. Louis panics, not ready to face another rejection. “You like it? I know it’s just a demo but –”

“It’s fucking brilliant,” Dan cuts him off.

“Really?” Louis asks, surprised. He’d expected Dan to not say anything at all.

“Fantastic stuff,” Dan continues adamantly. “That’ll be a hit. No question.”

Louis smiles, incredibly pleased.

“Do you have a place in Paris, yet?” Dan asks.

“No.”

“I have a few hundred quid for you for a deposit on a place. I’m going to come over and see you when you’re settled in. I’ll bring the girls. They’d love that.”

“Wow, Dan. Cheers,” Louis replies, touched by his stepdad’s kindness. “Yeah, I’d love that. I’d love to show you and the girls around once I know my way.”

Dan smiles, sipping at his tea.

“Will you be alright?” Louis asks.

“What do you mean?” He meets Louis’ eye. “I was alright for years before you came along, wasn’t I?”

Louis looks away. He thinks about his mum and how lost he felt when she passed and knowing that Dan felt something similar.

“I don’t have to go now. I can put this thing off for a few months –”

“Go,” Dan says firmly, as if Louis is still a child who has to obey his parents. “And the best of luck, son.”

Louis hadn’t wanted to leave Dan after his mum’s passing, thinking that they both needed someone close by. Maybe they don’t need that anymore.

“Thanks, Dan.”

Dan holds Louis’ gaze, and Louis can see the emotion in his eyes as he says, “Make your mum proud.”

Louis nods, feeling his own chest restrict painfully as he thinks about his mum and how happy she’d be that he’s doing this for himself.

Dan sips at his cup of tea. When he places the cup on the table, he turns to Louis. “Now, play it again.”

Louis chuckles. “Okay.”

He presses the play button, and he and Dan sit back and listen.

 

“That’s good,” the voice says through the phone.

It’s a voice Louis hasn’t heard in a year, and it’s familiar and yet so strange. His ex sounds nothing like Harry – no unique accent and his voice isn’t particularly deep or high pitched. It’s just kind of neutral, not slow and deep like Harry’s. It’s a voice that once made him go weak at the knees; now, he just feels woozy in a different way.

When Louis had dialed the number – given to him when his ex still hoped to reconcile – he had wished that his ex wouldn’t have answered. He wanted to leave a voicemail, or maybe no message at all. Maybe he would have hung up. But his ex has answered, and he had sounded pleased to hear Louis on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, I’ve recorded a few songs,” Louis tells him.

“Oh, really?” he asks. “What are they like?”

“They’re good. I’m really happy with them.”

“That’s great. I can’t wait to hear them.”

Louis almost protests. Those are the songs he recorded with Harry. It feels as if it would be a betrayal of his and Harry’s relationship – giving his ex something that he and Harry created together. But these songs aren’t just his and Harry’s anymore, and it would make no sense for his ex not to hear them.

“Okay,” Louis replies, not able to offer more.

“Great. I’ve missed you,” he sighs, longing in his voice. Louis wonders if his ex has been as lonely as he has.

“Yeah, me too.” It’s true, even if Louis has missed him less after falling for someone else.

“Do you want me to meet you at the station?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, even though his ex can’t see him. “I’ll come find you.”

“Okay.” His ex pauses, and Louis wonders if he is biting at his nails. It always was his nervous habit. “I’m glad you’ve decided to come.”

Louis is unable to reply, the words caught in his throat. Echoing his ex’s sentiment would feel like a lie, possibly because it is. So Louis just remains silent.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” Louis says. “I’ve got some stuff to do and my train leaves in a couple of hours.”

“Hurry up,” he replies, and the phone line goes dead.

Louis hangs up the phone. His whole body feels detached from what just happened. His ex wants him back. If anyone had asked Louis what he wanted two weeks ago, he would have said exactly that. Now, it fills him with a churning, bittersweet melancholy. He will no longer be alone, but he won’t be with the person he wants to be with. If that is the case, wouldn’t it be better to be alone?

But Louis doesn’t have time to ponder such a question as that. His train leaves this afternoon and he has a couple of things to do first. No time to waste.

 

Louis and Dan embrace as they say goodbye, and Louis insists that Dan doesn't need to go with him to the train station. Dan seems secretly relieved, and Louis knows they both wish to avoid a tearful farewell on the platform. There's something more final about goodbyes at the last possible moment, when there is nothing left to do but leave. This way, it feels like Louis is just popping down to the shops for some milk. It feels less absolute.

Louis takes his guitar and his backpack, stuffed full with rolled clothing, toiletries, and an extra pair of shoes. It is heavier on his back than he expected, but in a way it's comforting. His whole life is carried in this bag, and the heaviness feels as if his life also carries weight, carries purpose.

Louis rides the bus to Waterloo, looking out the window at the familiar sights. His favorite chip shop, the park he always takes the girls to when they visit, that Italian restaurant he always wanted to try but never got around to.

He gets off at the station and walks down the road to Harry's building. Harry may have broken Louis' heart when he didn't come to see him last night, but Louis still wants to say goodbye. This move wouldn't be happening without Harry, and Louis wants to see him one last time.

Louis knocks on the door, stepping back as he waits for someone to answer. He looks off the balcony and can see the top of Victoria Tower over the other buildings. He watches the flag flap in the breeze.

The door opens and Anne steps out, Ivana balanced on her hip.

"Oh, hello Louis," Anne says. She smiles at him, but it seems a bit strained.

"Hi," Louis replies. "Hi, Ivana."

Ivana doesn't respond, too busy playing with Anne's hair. Louis wonders if Ivana also knows he's leaving.

"Is Harry in?" he asks.

"No, he's not."

"Really?" Disappointment swells inside of Louis. He can't - he can't leave without saying goodbye to Harry. He has to see him again before he goes. To see his face and hear his voice and hold those memories with him when he's in Paris. He hasn't had the goodbye he deserves. "Do you know when he'll get back?"

"Not until later." Ivana starts to cry, and Anne bounces her, holding her close. 

Louis scrubs a hand across his face. He doesn't have enough time to wait for Harry. He usually doesn't finish in Chelsea until the afternoon and it's not even noon yet.

"Um," Louis fumbles, trying to find something to say. "Can you tell him I'm going? And that I stopped by? Tell him I'll call him."

"Okay."

"Can you thank him for me?" A lump forms in Louis' throat, impossibly immovable. 

Anne's expression is unreadable, and Louis wonders if she can tell. If she can tell that he is in love with her son, and maybe even that her son is in love with him, too. He wonders if she sees as well that it is not meant to be.

"I'll tell him," Anne agrees eventually.

"Thank you," Louis says, feeling relieved. If he can't tell Harry himself, he'd rather him hear Louis' thanks from his mum than not at all.

Anne kisses his cheek, and Louis kisses hers back. "Bye, Ivana," Louis says, rubbing her arm. She continues to cry, and Louis feels as if she is shedding tears on his behalf. She is a toddler and could be crying for any number of reasons – because she's tired or hungry or wanting attention. But Louis would like to think she is crying because she knows Louis can't. Because the moment he starts crying will be the moment he decides he isn't going to go.

Anne wishes him safe travels, and then she steps inside with Ivana still crying and shuts the door. 

Louis stands there for a moment, unwilling to leave this spot. Maybe Harry will finish his shift early and come home. If he waits here for just a moment, maybe he will see him...

But Louis doesn't wish to loiter. If Anne thought Harry was coming home soon, maybe she would have invited Louis in. He has time before his train leaves, just not lots of it. 

Louis reluctantly starts walking back towards Waterloo. He passes by the music shop where he and Harry first sang together, and Louis feels drawn there as powerfully as a magnet pulling him forward. He steps inside and half expects to see Harry sitting at the piano, his lovely face framed by curls as he sings. But Harry isn't there, of course, and it isn't even the same worker at the front desk as the day Harry and Louis came by.

Louis walks to the back of the shop, running his hand over the pianos. He lingers by the one Harry played on. Louis' fingers lightly touch the keys, hoping to feel the ghost of Harry's touch against the ivory. 

The idea comes to him suddenly, but the moment it presents itself to him, Louis knows it is perfect. Nothing else could possibly make more sense.

Louis walks back through the shop to the front counter.

"Hey, mate," Louis says to the shop assistant.

"Hey."

"Could I talk about something with you over there?" Louis nods towards the pianos.

"Alright."

Louis leaves the music shop fifteen minutes later with a receipt in his hand and his heart feeling much lighter.

 

Before going to Waterloo, Louis walks up to the Southbank. He will have to find a new hub in Paris to play his music. Maybe on the Seine, or near the Eiffel Tower, or along the Champs-Élysées. He'll figure it out.

Louis walks to the river's edge. He puts his hands on the railing, peering out at the murky water and Big Ben in the distance. It is an iconic sight, and it was Louis' backdrop every day that he came to busk. In some ways, it feels like he is saying goodbye to his office.

Louis watches the crowds passing him by for a moment, looking for a familiar head selling flowers. Harry might have come to the Southbank today and not his job in Chelsea. He could be here, somewhere among the hundreds of people passing him by. They could still have a chance to say goodbye.

Louis navigates his way through the crowds, looking at every face he passes in case they might be Harry. He walks along to the steps leading up to Westminster Bridge, and climbs them to gain a better vantage point. He scans the crowds, not willing to give up hope just yet. But he knows Harry doesn't like to sell his flowers in the thick of the crowds, and that he would have been over nearby where Louis busked. 

Louis walks back down the steps and towards the London Eye just in case, but no sight of Harry. 

He has an hour and a half until his train leaves, but he doesn't have anything left to do. Louis walks towards Waterloo Station, looking regretfully over his shoulder as he goes.

The ride from Waterloo to King's Cross St Pancras is easy enough, with a quick change at Oxford Circus. Louis keeps his bags close to him, not wanting to take up too much space in the fairly busy carriage. The tube is quicker than the bus would be, and Louis wishes he had taken the bus instead. He would have sat at the top of the bus and taken in the sights of London again. All the famous buildings and beautiful architecture that he never really paid attention to while living here. He would have liked to have appreciated it at least once, even if it is as he is leaving the city indefinitely.

The tube is too quick, as opposed to the bus where he would have had stop lights and traffic to delay his departure. Instead, he finds himself riding up the escalators into St Pancras barely twenty minutes after he left Waterloo. It's too quick, just like his decision to leave London was quick. His head still spins from that decision and here he is, already about to board his train.

Louis receives his ticket from a kiosk, having already purchased it online. The piece of paper has his name on the top: Tomlinson, Louis. St Pancras International to Paris Gare du Nord.

Louis buys a bag of crisps from WH Smith and puts them in his bag for a snack on the train. He checks the board for his train, but it's too early and the platform hasn't been announced yet. Louis takes a seat opposite the board, ready to wait for his platform.

He doesn't have a book or magazine, so he watches the people around him. People in suits walk briskly and confidently towards their trains, hardly glancing at the board above them to confirm they're getting on the right one. Other people stand clustered in groups, staring confusedly at the board and their tickets, trying to make sense of it all. 

"The 12:20 train to Paris Gare du Nord will depart from platform 19," a clear, recorded female voice announces over the tannoy. 

Louis watches as the platform flashes up on the screen, all the train's information bulletined above the whole station. He has time, but Louis knows he'll be sitting for the next couple of hours on the train. He stands up and stretches, reaching to grab his bags and make his way towards his platform.

"Louis! Oh my God, Louis! Wait!"

The station is so noisy that Louis doesn't believe the voice calling his name is real. How could one voice project itself over the noise of a London train station? It is wishful thinking; his brain wishes there was a voice calling for him, asking him to stop.

"Louis! Louis!"

That sounded more real and closer. Louis turns his head.

Shoving his way through the congested crowd, Harry comes into view. He pushes past people with determination, but his eyes never leave Louis'. 

Louis' eyes are wide with disbelief. Maybe he should have eaten that bag of crisps sooner because surely he must be hallucinating. Maybe he passed out from hunger and Harry has appeared to him in some desperate vision Louis has concocted. 

But as Harry gets closer, Louis sees that his eyes are red rimmed and his hair is a mess. His jacket is hastily done up, and it looks like his shoes are on the wrong feet. Harry's eyes don't leave Louis', and he trips over a suitcase as someone walks by. Harry stumbles like a baby animal that hasn't yet learned to walk, but thankfully he doesn't fall. "Watch it," someone snaps at him, but Harry ignores them.

Louis watches Harry approach, stunned.

Harry stops right before Louis. His chest heaves with quick breaths, and Louis wonders if he ran here. Ran all the way from Waterloo. But he knows that's ridiculous.

"Louis," Harry says breathlessly, but his voice is full of painful emotion. 

Louis can see that Harry has been crying, and he thinks of Ivana crying earlier. Their noses both shrivel up when they cry. Their cheeks become red.

"Harry." Louis' voice isn't his own. He doesn't know who is speaking through him, but he is glad part of him has enough sense to respond.

"Don't go."

Louis' eyes never leave Harry, and he sees Harry's mouth move, but he does not believe those words came from him. Maybe someone behind Louis spoke at the same moment and they drowned out Harry and Louis heard those words instead. 

"What?" Louis asks, his voice hoarse. 

"Don't go to Paris," Harry repeats, and this time, Louis knows it's Harry. Harry's gaze never wavers, and Louis watches Harry's mouth say the words. Say the wonderful words that Louis was hoping so desperately he would hear. Harry takes a deep breath. "I love you, Louis. Stay with me."

Louis gawks at Harry for a moment, and then, as suddenly as a summer storm, Louis crumbles. A giant sob escapes his lips, and tears fall freely and uncontrollably down his cheeks. Louis covers his hand with his face, so overwhelmed that he feels as if this is the only way he can hold himself together.

Arms come around Louis, and he accepts the embrace without resistance. Louis presses his face into Harry's chest as he sobs, shaking against him. Harry's hands move against Louis' back in a comforting gesture, and Louis feels lips press against the crown of his head. Feeling Harry's tenderness towards him only makes him cry harder.

"The 12:20 train to Paris Gare du Nord..."

"Louis," Harry whispers, sounding frantic. 

"I thought you didn't want me to stay," Louis whispers, pressing the words into Harry's shoulder. He can't look at Harry, too afraid of what he'll see.

"I only ever wanted you to stay," Harry whispers. He pulls Louis back far enough that Louis can see the earnestness in his expression. But what Louis also sees, that he had only ever seen in glimpses before, is complete and unfettered love. 

"I only want to be with you," Louis cries, his hands gripping Harry's jacket, unwilling to let him go. "I only want to go to Paris if it's with you."

"I know it's selfish to ask, but –" Harry's face crumples too, and tears come easily to his already red eyes. "And I thought I was strong enough to let you go, but I'm not. I needed to tell you that I love you at least once. Just in case..."

"Harry," Louis breathes. He reaches up to cradle Harry's face, the skin warm and wet beneath his palms. Louis leans forward so that their foreheads are touching, just the two of them in one of the busiest train stations in London. "I love you, too. I won't leave you. I won't; I won't."

Harry lets out a gross sob, his shoulders shaking. He pulls Louis close to him, as close as they can manage.

They hold one another as they cry, but Louis has never felt so incredibly happy.

Louis eventually leans back and wipes Harry's face with his thumbs. Harry sniffles, and then dries Louis' tears too. Harry watches him, mesmerized. His hand lingers on Louis' cheek, and Louis turns his face to softly kiss Louis' palm.

"I didn't ask last time," Harry says quietly. "But can I kiss you?"

Louis hiccups a sob, wondering if it's possible to faint from happiness. "Please."

Harry leans forward slowly, his eyes never breaking from Louis'. Louis' eyes flutter shut moments before their lips touch, unwilling to lose sight of Harry until absolutely necessary.

Their kiss on the pier had been shy and fleeting, but this kiss is warm and full of love. Harry presses his lips firmly and with certainty against Louis', his hands gentle on Louis' face. Louis sinks against Harry, losing himself in Harry's warmth and his smell and his touch.

"I love you," Harry whispers as they break apart.

Harry's thumb gently strokes Louis' cheek. His eyes are filled with tenderness, and Louis never wants Harry to look away from him again.

"I love you, too," Louis whispers. Now that he can say the words, Louis doesn't think he will ever stop. "I am so happy that I have you forever, and not just once."


	3. Epilogue

_Four months later._

The pub is just off Covent Garden, a narrow building squeezed between a grocers and a baby clothing store. Tourists wander down the street on their way between Covent Garden and Leicester Square, taking photos of the picturesque English street. Locals stop in for a good drink and good music, needing to unwind with mates after a long day’s work. To an outsider it may not seem like much, but Louis thinks it’s the perfect place for his first paid gig.

Since deciding not to go to Paris, Louis’ motivation to play more gigs and write more music and find a record deal has not abated. With Harry at his side in constant support, Louis had felt like his goals had never been so tangible.

To start, he began playing his songs on the Southbank. He would still play crowd favorites, but he made sure to incorporate more of his own music. If he had a crowd and played one of his songs, they usually stuck around for it. They would dance along and film him just like they would when he would play ABBA or Take That. Playing his own music for crowds grew his confidence even more. This is his music, and he wanted people to hear it.

It wasn’t just on the Southbank that Louis had been chasing his dream. Louis had been writing more than ever. He’d been reaching out to different venues, always carrying multiple copies of his demo whenever he went to meet with them.

His loyal companion Rejection was reluctant to step aside, and at times Louis felt just as discouraged as before, despite his newfound efforts. It didn’t matter that he had a new energy and new songs and a new boyfriend giving him unwavering support and encouragement. Maybe his luck hadn’t changed after all.

But all it took was one interested booker, and Louis has his first paid gig in the heart of the city.

“Are you good to go?” the pub manager asks Louis as he sets his guitar on stage and adjusts the mic. The show starts in an hour, and there are already a few people in the pub. He doesn’t think any of them are there for him, but he hopes that maybe some of them will listen when he starts to perform.

“Yeah, I’m good. Cheers,” Louis replies, giving the mic stand one final adjustment. He’s up first – opening for some other band – so hopefully no one will mess with it before he goes on.

Louis steps off the stage and goes to the bar. His leg bounces nervously as he orders water and a plate of chips so that he can have something light on his stomach before he goes on stage.

Louis looks around the pub as he nibbles on his chips. His throat feels thick, but he doesn’t want to drink too much and then have to go to the loo in the middle of the set. How embarrassing would that be – singing and playing with his legs crossed to keep from weeing on himself. Maybe he’d be able to pass it off as dance moves.

“Hey, superstar!”

The familiar, excited voice jars Louis from his thoughts. A smile has broken across his face before his eyes even land on his boyfriend.

“Hey!” Louis exclaims, grinning gleefully as Harry arrives at his side. It’s been months, and the sight of Harry still thrills Louis like the drop on a rollercoaster. Harry wraps his arms around Louis and kisses his cheek. Feeling Harry’s heat around him and the calming touch of his hands on his back, Louis’ nerves ebb.

After Harry confessed his feelings that day on the platform, Louis has never been happier. They had a lot to work through – Harry had to officially break off his engagement and Louis had to finally let go of his feelings of hurt and rejection not only towards his ex but also towards Harry.

Harry explained that he had cared for Louis the whole time, but that he had also been fearful. Fearful of what it would mean for him and for his family if he let himself love again.

“The day at the beach when I kissed you,” Harry had told Louis one night, sitting side by side on the stoop of Harry’s flat. “That was selfish but I just wanted to have you for that one moment.”

“I’m glad you did. Kissing you was –” Louis had smiled, shaking his head, at a loss for words. “It made me want to stay. If that was what being with you was like, I didn’t want to go.”

“I almost asked you then to stay, but I had already been selfish with kissing you and I knew I couldn’t put you in that situation where you’d have to choose.” Harry had pressed Louis’ hand gently. “I think I was using that as a way to justify my fears.”

“And the day you came to St Pancras…?”

“When the piano arrived from the shop, and the delivery person told me it was from you, I think it finally hit me. I realized that I was already losing you, so I had nothing to be afraid of. The worst that could happen was that I went to the station and told you I loved you and you said you didn’t and went to Paris, which you were already doing anyways. I had to at least try.”

“Thank God you did.”

“Thank God I did.”

Back in the warm pub, Harry steps to the side, but keeps his hand lightly on Louis’ back so that Louis can greet Ivana and Anne. He scoops Ivana up in his arms and gives her a smacking kiss on the cheek before giving Anne a hug.

“Hi, love,” she greets. “How are you feeling?

“Nervous,” Louis admits. “Better now that you’re all here. Excited.”

“Sounds about right,” Anne replies.

“I’m so glad you all were able to make it.”

“Of course! We wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“We’ll be front row cheering for you,” Harry adds proudly, lightly squeezing Louis’ arm. “So you’ll always have a familiar face to focus on if you get nervous.”

“I don’t know if that makes me more nervous or not!”

“Don’t scare him,” Anne chastises Harry before turning to Louis. “Have you eaten?”

Louis gestures towards the plate of chips. “Not much.”

“What do you want to eat?” Harry asks. “We’ll order you something before your set is over so you can eat as soon as you get off the stage.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Louis agrees.

Louis lets Ivana help herself to some chips while he looks over the menu. Deciding what he wants to eat takes his mind off his upcoming performance, which he thinks must have been a clever trick from Harry. Louis knows that Harry uses similar techniques with Ivana when he needs to distract her, but Louis is so nervous that he can’t be bothered about that.

Dan arrives thirty minutes before the set starts, blaming the tube and crowds of tourists for making him late.

“Not a problem,” Louis replies as he embraces his stepdad. “I’m just glad you made it.”

Louis moved into his own studio flat about a month ago, and even though he still lives in Peckham, he doesn’t see Dan as much as he did before. He tries to have dinner with Dan at least once a week which gives them time together. Last week, in fact, Harry, Anne, and Ivana hosted Louis and Dan for dinner. It was the first time the two small families spent time together as a whole, and it had thankfully been a smashing success. Dan had loved the meal Harry prepared, Anne kept easy conversation flowing, and Ivana delighted Dan with her friendliness.

In the pub, Dan greets Anne with a kiss on the cheek and gives Ivana a sweet after a subtle nod of permission from Harry.

“You must be so proud,” Anne gushes to Dan.

“I haven’t even performed yet!” Louis protests, feeling embarrassed.

“No matter,” Dan ignores him. “Yes, I’m so proud. Doesn’t seem like enough to say it, but I am.”

Louis blushes. “Thanks, Dan.”

Dan puts a hand on Louis’ arm and smiles at him. “Your mum would be proud, too. She always knew you’d do great things. She wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest, but God, would she be proud.”

Louis smiles, knowing how true Dan’s words are. He didn’t realize until this moment how badly he needed to hear them.

He is kept from saying anything else when he sees two familiar faces walk through the door.

“Hey!” Louis greets, walking towards Niall and Liam with a big smile on his face. “I’m so glad you guys were able to make it!”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Niall says, giving Louis a hug and a firm thump on the back. “I have a special attachment to these songs, you know.”

“Feels like they’re a bit of ours, too,” Liam adds, also hugging Louis in greeting. “Like they’re my godchildren or something.”

“They are, they are,” Louis assures them. “Come over and meet everybody.”

Louis introduces Niall and Liam to Dan, Anne, and Ivana. He’s seen Niall and Liam a couple of times over the past few months, trying to make more of an effort to meet new people and develop friendships. Niall and Liam have turned into two wonderful friends. Liam is always someone he can tease, and Niall always laughs at Louis’ jokes like they’re the funniest things he’s ever heard. Louis loves spending time with them.

“How long is your set?” Liam asks, a drink in his hand.

“Forty minutes.” Fifteen minutes until it starts.

“That’s a good amount of time.”

“Yeah, I was worried I wouldn’t have enough to fill the time slot, but I’ve got plenty. I’ve been timing myself,” Louis admits with a laugh.

“We’ll throw things at you if you start to go too long,” Niall teases.

“Hopefully you’ll be the only ones throwing things at me.”

“No one will throw things at you,” Harry assures him. “I’ll make sure they’re arrested if they do.”

“I didn’t realize you had that ability.”

“I don’t, but they don’t know that.”

“Sounds effective.”

“It would be, if it was necessary, which it won’t be, because you’ll smash it.”

“Thanks, love.”

Harry beams at him, and Louis is helpless but to smile back. The greatest part of the past four months has undoubtedly been Harry. Louis has only fallen more in love with Harry with each passing day. Any time that Harry cooks for him or brings Ivana to the Southbank to watch him play. Any time that Harry shares more of himself with Louis – his insecurities or his grief over his sister’s death or his hopes for Ivana’s future – Louis falls more and more in love. Harry has been a constant support while Louis looked for a new flat and explored new music ventures. In turn, Louis tries to always be there for Harry whether it’s keeping an eye on Ivana when he’s overwhelmed or surprising Harry by picking him up after work with a pastry from Pret a Manger in tow.

They fight sometimes; their opinions and world views clash every now and then, but they work through it. Louis finds that after each fight, he has a deeper understanding of the man he loves. A precious reward after a bout of difficulty.

But overall, they complement each other. They work well together. Louis knows he has found the one he will love for the rest of his life.

“Excuse me.”

Louis turns away from Harry to see the manager standing before him. Immediately, Louis stands up straight, nerves churning inside him.

“Yeah?”

“Just wanted to give you a ten minute warning.”

“Okay, cheers.”

The manager nods and walks off.

Louis exhales and turns to his friends and family, all watching him with anticipation.

“Almost show time,” Anne says excitedly.

“How are you feeling?” Niall asks.

Even with the nerves making his stomach somersault, Louis grins at them. “I think I’m ready. Yeah, I feel good.”

“You’re going to smash it, mate,” Liam replies.

“Good luck, son,” Dan says.

“We’re so proud of you!” Anne assures him.

Louis turns to Harry, and he can see nothing but pride and love written on his face. “You’re going to be amazing,” Harry says quietly, just for Louis.

“Thanks,” Louis replies. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Louis leans up to kiss Harry, his lips sweet and familiar and comforting against his.

With a cheer that sounds like it’s from Niall, Louis pulls away and heads towards the stage. The tables around the small stage are filled with people, all chatting noisily. While he waits for the manager to announce him, Louis takes a sip of water and picks up his guitar. He puts the strap over his shoulders and strums it, listening closely to make sure it’s in tune.

He stands at the side, shifting nervously from foot to foot until the lights come on the stage and the manager steps up to the mic.

“Alright, good evening everyone. Thank you for coming out. We’ve got a good show for you tonight. Later on we’ll have a group called Racket play for you, but first off we have a new, up and coming singer who I think you’re really going to like. Everyone give it up for Louis Tomlinson!”

The pub breaks into cheers and applause, and even if it’s only his friends and family making the noise, Louis can’t help but smile. He steps onto the stage, waving out at the crowd, the lights in his eyes.

“Evening,” Louis greets, strumming his guitar. “Like he said, I’m Louis Tomlinson, and I’m going to play some songs for you tonight.”

Through the lights, Louis can make out the shape of his friends and family. He can see the pride in their eyes and the smiles on their faces. Louis meets Harry’s eyes and gratitude and love course through him. Louis wouldn’t be on this stage without Harry. Without his love and encouragement and his belief in Louis.

“Thank you for being here tonight,” Louis continues. “This song is called Falling Slowly.”

The first song he ever sang with Harry. Louis may not have realized it when it happened, but that was the moment when his heart became Harry’s. The moment when he Harry began to give pieces of themselves to the other as they did exactly what the song predicted. As they fell in love.

As he plays the opening chords, they’re for Harry. This performance, it is for Louis and for finally accomplishing a lifelong dream. But this song, this song is for Harry.

Louis closes his eyes and sings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'll see you at the reveal! x
> 
> Tumblr post [here](https://hlmusicalsficfest.tumblr.com/post/185799157944/walking-on-moonbeams-once-40k-i-see-you-here)


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